Of Baths and Birthdays
by Chimaya
Summary: A series of calamities in Cimarron City leaves Jim in need of a soak and Dulcey in want of a celebration. With no intention to infringe or otherwise harm.
1. Chapter 1

I.

"You're a dead man, you hear me? A dead man, Marshal!"

"Can't help but hear," Francis Wilde morosely commented to his boss, U. S. Marshal Jim Crown. "She sure is a noisy thing."

"Dead, Lawman," shrilled the girl, wriggling furiously in the saddle to which she had been tied. "How'd you like that? Del's gonna come for me. He's going to kill you for taking me." She made an angry sound, whipped her head back and forth to free her face of the dark, snarly strands of hair. "I'm carrying Del Larson's child, Lawman. He's gonna come for me and kill you – he'll burn your eyeballs, rip out your guts, he'll…"

"He's going to have to get here first to make good on any of those threats," Crown tossed back over his shoulder to the woman. Hell, she was a mere girl. Perhaps twenty, not much more. And completely full with child, so big that he'd been afraid of handling her too roughly – until she clubbed him hard behind one ear and he'd dropped fast onto his backside along the muddy, soak-churned grass. Smarting at both ends, he'd still managed to snag one skinny wrist and wrestle her down. From there he'd had to battle tiny fists and sharp nails and bruises to his shins as he waited for Francis to get over his gape and bring on some manacles. Then he'd cast her astride the mare and lashed her securely; now he wished he'd added a gag. But he did have some morals, even if she was stretching the limits of the meaning of woman. She was wanted, along with her man Del Larson for bank robbery. That gave him the right to bring her in and keep her from escaping – and himself safe in the process – by whatever means necessary. And bringing her in might just lure that bank robber Larson right into his arms.

Crown shrugged himself, trying to ease the cling of his damp and muddied shirt. The chase into the Outlet had been dry, but they'd encountered a fierce rainstorm coming out of the mountains that had dogged them for two full days. The result was wet feet, wet clothing, slow travel and growing frustration. The mildness of the spring day had barely been felt until an hour before, when the sun had finally broken through the scudding clouds. As he dried so also did the grit he wore and it itched, especially in places he didn't want to acknowledge. Days without shaving or washing made him feel worse. He shifted painfully in the dampened saddle; his hip was going to have a bruise, along with the fleshy area right behind it, too. A bath – that was the first order of business when he got back.

"He'll get here," the girl screeched again. "He's probably watching right now, probably has his sights trained right on you, ready to send a bullet right through that bony head of yourn."

Well, his bony head was already rightly hurting, along with his ears from all her spouting. Never would the buildings of Cimarron be so welcome. All he wanted was to put her into a cell, send for the doc, and then collapse into a warm tub. And soak for hours. Even a fresh meal and one of his favored cigars could wait. He wanted a bath – badly.

"I'm surprised you aren't going to ask her for her story," Crown teasingly chided Francis, easing his black gelding around a washout in the roadway. The horse pulled at the bit, detecting the scent of home on the wind that now blew in their faces. "Outlaw's woman on the run and with a baby on the way…"

"I did ask her," replied the part-time deputy and reporter. "But I can't print what she told me."

"She doesn't have much by way of manners," Crown agreed with the best chuckle he could muster, and it was more of a grimace at that.

"There," Francis pointed. "Cimarron – home at last."

The town buildings rose up sturdy and solid from the plain before them, the merchant businesses, the saloons and gaming halls. Crown could make out the depot and train station, the feed and grain store, Lauk's empty land building – though news out of Congress might change that, especially with the recent land run down in No Man's Land.

Home – that's what Cimarron felt like now, the raw progress ebbing into livelihoods and futures and respectability. There was the stately yellow hotel with its fresh white trim – and the Wayfarer's Inn, cozy and inviting. Even his horse whickered in recognition and tugged again on the bit, ready for the comfort of a clean stall and regular feed.

Leftover rain puddles were quivering in the street, first dark and then shiny bright as the afternoon sun worked through the sailing clouds. Aside from the usual assortment of horses, foot traffic and other vehicles, it looked quiet. MacGregor had been left in charge to keep the peace and to nurse his wounded arm, the result of last week's shootout between here and Hardesty by a band of out of work cowboys taking their boredom out on some farmers. Crown hoped there'd be little more for the circuit judge when he arrived in two weeks, aside from this devilish female prisoner. Quiet would be real nice. He'd get a bath, in his own room. Whatever was on his desk would wait. Lord, yes, a bath. Cimarron City's woes would wait for Jim Crown's meager indulgence. Though he owed Charley Ives a week of fishing days. And he owed Dulcey, too…

Dulcey Coopersmith – his landlady, meal-maker and washer-woman; his reminder that youth could be fresh and young and enthusiastic. And that a flower could bloom even under the roughest conditions. With Dulcey around he was prompted to mind his manners, like wiping his boots before coming into her dining room, and not smoking his cigars in her presence. And it led his heart to other feelings, some long-rusty, others new and a little frightening – about her. Dulcey…

Somewhere in the swampy parts of his thickened, weary brain there trawled a fragment of thought – something he'd told himself to remember about Dulcey, an important something…

"Lawman, I ain't going in your jail! You hear me? Don't you lay another hand on me…"

The screech bit into the last vestiges of his patience that begged to be converted into impatience. Crown swung stiffly down, cursed under his breath at the pain that chattered up his leg and into his bad hip. He was thoroughly sick of his dirty wet clothes, the scruff on his face, the coffee he'd made that even he had to admit was beginning to taste too strong. He was tired of riding and of this noisy woman. He wanted a bath.

He stripped the handcuffs off the girl, tried to tamp his feelings down and work up some sympathy for her obvious condition. But then her foot came toward his head and he barely had enough time to jerk out of the way. He pulled her none too lightly from the saddle, his hands sweaty with the anger heating the length of him; strong-armed her through his office door where Francis, knowing that the stone-faced look he wore meant a minute away from complete rage, took over.

"Jim…"

His side vision caught a blur of blonde hair by the connecting door – Dulcey…

He gratefully accepted the cup of coffee she held out to him. How did she know that he so desperately needed it? He got one hot swallow down but didn't even get to enjoy the taste, for the girl prisoner had splayed her grip on the doorway and held fast.

"I'm not gonna move – you can't make me," she said smugly to Francis, who was hard-pressed to know exactly where to put his hands on her, and surely loathe to pull a gun on her.

"Well, I can," Crown announced, now having none such misgivings. He banged the cup down on his desk, causing it to slosh over. Dulcey quickly made a grab for it and avoid ruining the papers she'd stacked on his desktop. "You're going in a cell and you're gonna stay there." In one stride he'd plucked the cell keys off the wall peg and reached her side. He firmly peeled one set of fingers off the doorway, clamped a hand around a slender elbow and nudged her hip with his knee.

"Jim!" he heard Dulcey's horrified gasp behind him. "Don't – she's…"

"Don't tell me don't!" he snarled, restrained fury finally spilling over. "You haven't been in her lousy company for two whole days!"

Francis grasped her wrist and together they wrestled her down the short corridor and into a cell, pulled their heads back just in time to avoid being raked by her dirty nails. She heaped a surprising collection of epithets onto them, then raised a foot to stomp. Crown got his shin up and nudged hard. She tripped, but their grips kept her from falling.

"Let go!" Crown commanded to his deputy and they released her. He swiftly slammed the door on her, this swollen angry gamine, this hell-fired she cat on two small feet. "Find the doc for her," he ordered Francis with a strong measure of satisfaction – or was it relief? – and locked the door. "And put up some blankets or sheets to give her some privacy." He glanced about with dismay – the other cells were half-full with three soldiers in one, and a nervous looking man in another. All of them stared, open-mouthed. "Give me a report," he barked to his approaching Chief Deputy Angus MacGregor, "straight and quick."

"Drunkenness and card cheating," the older Scotsman told him in a pleasant burr, indicating first the soldiers and then the single man. He adjusted the sling encasing his arm, smiled a little knowingly. "The details are on your desk. It hasn't been exactly quiet while you've been out on your man hunt – or would that be a woman hunt, Jim Crown?"

Crown nodded to the cell holding the girl. "I expect the man half to come along presently," he stated, handing the keys over and limping back into his office.

A gleam came into Mac's light blue gaze as he followed. "Ah, the lure," he guessed with delight. "So you've a plan, have you?"

"You can't leave me in here!" the girl howled. "You let me out. You tell them to stop staring at me. You tell them…"

"The Inn is closed until further notice," Crown told Dulcey, snatching the cup from her hand. He rammed another swallow down his throat but it didn't help quell any of the heat thrumming through him. This was not the place for the public while a woman was having a child. And she was going to stay in that cell, baby on the way or not. Even Dulcey's emerging glare of dismay _Again, Jim? _wasn't going to change his mind.

"Very well, Marshal Crown," Dulcey clipped in that too familiar rigid tone of unhappiness and disagreement that made her accent all the more pronounced. "Now, you should know…"

"Dulcey." Crown painfully straightened to his full height to address her. "I've got me a backside of wounded pride. I could use a little understanding just now…And a little less yammering – if you please," he added, seeing a more offended look cross her face. He limped over to the alcove, poured water into the basin, soaked one end of a towel and pressed it against the still-throbbing space behind his right ear.

"What happened?" Dulcey gasped upon seeing the blood appear on the cloth, her pique instantly fading. "Here, let me…"

"It's all right – I've been hit harder," he said, brushing her hands aside, for he did appreciate her concern; it was just that he wasn't feeling particularly friendly at the moment. And wouldn't until he was clean. What he wanted was a bath above anything else. He reached for the container holding his cigars – empty. And there was no package on his desk. "Didn't the train come in?" he growled out.

"Some sort of trouble up the line," Mac told him.

No cigars – dammit. Crown limped to his double door. "Now, is there anything that absolutely needs my attention at this minute?" he announced to the two of them. "Because if there isn't, then I'm gonna get me a bath and – what?" he asked impatiently, seeking Dulcey's pretty little mouth work to form words over his own. It niggled at him again – something that he was supposed to remember about Dulcey…

"The Senator…" she started.

"What about him?" Senator Preston Plumb of Kansas, sponsor of his appointment to Cimarron and a good friend. He was due to make a visit – Crown did remember that much. Was it today? Though Plumb might be a senator he was also a friend; he'd no doubt gladly cool his heels with a good glass or two of whiskey, then take a clean bed and talk about all the Congress doings in the morning. Congress had opened the Unassigned Lands and now they were eyeing the Outlet – it wasn't small talk but heady discussion. Crown wanted to send him back with a good report to both the Secretary of Interior and the President.

Dulcey drew a telegram from her apron pocket and thrust it at him with apology in her eyes. "He won't be here at four o'clock."

"Well, that's just fine by me." Crown took the paper from her. "Gives me plenty of time—"

"He'll be here at two," Dulcey interrupted quickly.

"What?" Crown swung a look to the clock out on the dining room wall. Less than an hour. "What in tarnation!" he thundered to the telegram. Barely enough time, but if he filled only half the tub…he handed her the cooling coffee cup and got moving.

"Where are you going?" she demanded. "Have you even eaten…?"

"No time." He kept going, placed his boots onto the stairs. "I'm taking a bath-"

"A bath – no!" she cried with such panic that he paused, one foot hovering above the riser. "Jim, wait…please…" She raced across the floor toward him.

"Dulcey, I only have time for a half a bath but I'm going to take it." He took another step, stripped off his vest. "And I'll ask you not to interrupt me, all right? Get some blankets for Francis to hang. And get the girl cleaned up." He worked at his gun belt, one hand plucking loose the thong holding the holster to his thigh, the other tugging the strap out of the loop at his waist.

"But, Jim…"

"Dulcey, do as I say," he directed, reaching the top landing. "And feed the Senator when he gets in – that'll give me a little more time."

"Jim!" There was an open plead in her voice – what had her so riled? "Jim, I need – there's…your tub…"

Yes, his tub, ordered all the way from Kansas City and crowded into one corner of his room. He still had to lug water from the Inn's bathing room but it was worth the privacy; he'd had too many other untimely and nearly uncompromising interruptions when using the more public one. And Jim Crown liked a peaceable time in the bath – they all knew it.

"It can wait," Crown insisted, trying to keep total admonishment out of his voice, breathing better now that he was far away from that girl downstairs and closer to satisfying the desire that'd been taunting him for two days. A bath – a tub full of warm, clean water, a thick cake of soap, a fresh towel and his razor at hand…

"Jim…There's – if you let me – I left…"

He couldn't wait– it was beckoning him like a lover. Crown left Dulcey's voice in the hallway, opened the door to his room, The tub greeted him, smooth and sturdy, welcoming. He dropped his things on the bed, smiled at it – wait, what…?

There was something in his tub —

"Jim – please, oh, no…"

There in the tub, _his_ tub. A wrinkled, soggy collection peeping out from a frothy edge of bubbles – he squinted at it— lace…

Soaking in _his tub-_

"What – is – this?" he bellowed.

"It's my washing," Dulcey said in a tiny voice, fresh spots of pink embarrassment rising on her cheeks.

"Dulcey…!" Crown exploded, his aches, his soggy and smelly clothes, the grit and the gnawing in his belly rolling back on him.

"It's been raining for two days," she quickly tried to explain. "I held off as long as I could and when the weather didn't turn I thought…I needed some place for my-"

"Get it out," he ground out. Her washing _in his tub._ No one, _no one_ used his tub. Under no circumstances… "Get it out and put it somewhere else – now!"

She plunged her hands into the water, began to squeeze the material, wrung it hard. "Just please – just a few minutes and I promise I'll be…" the words tumbled out even as she scooped up more, dripping.

His tub…and the time. Crown danced behind her, trying not to strip off his shirt in front of her but desperate to begin, settled for yanking off a boot instead. She was splashing and wringing, now dropping the sopping things onto a towel – _his towel_ – and rolling it up, her face splotchy red and white.

"Dulcey…" he threatened, hands on his shirt buttons.

"I'm almost done!" she cried back, and gathered up the towel.

He wrenched his shirttail out of his waistband, heard a pounding of boots on the stairs, realized

the door was still open and hopped over to slam it shut—

Randy Morgan jumped through the doorway. "Marshal!" he gasped, out of breath, his skinny frame sweaty and disheveled, one cheek dripping blood. "Lazy M boys – fight – Cherokee Saloon – bad…" Even as he grabbed for the doorframe to steady himself the first shots came – one was a shotgun blast.

Crown couldn't stop the word from tumbling out over his lips even as he was reaching for his loose boot. He grabbed his gunbelt and ran behind the staggering Morgan, met Mac in the hallway. His feet were in the street when a thought jolted his memory – and stabbed him with utter guilt—

It was Dulcey's birthday.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

Dulcey wrung out the remains of her embarrassment and hung the lacy underthings on the wooden rack she'd set up on her balcony, still feeling a tinge of heat at the way Jim had found them. Her things, and he'd seen…

If only he'd sat down and gone through the mail on his desk like he always did after days on the trail. Then he would've ordered up a meal and she would've had time to get the washing out of his tub. She'd only used it as a last resort – there had been so much rain and the Inn's washing needed to get done first. Besides, didn't she have a right to be a little mad at him? He'd been gone nearly a week and had returned without so much as a _Hi, Dulcey_ or a _It's good to be back_ or a _What's for dinner? _Instead he'd tromped in dragging that girl prisoner, manhandled her too roughly for her delicate condition, pronounced the dining room closed and all but turned his back on her. And here it was her birthday…

Not that she expected any of them to remember, least of all Jim Crown. How could he? He was always so very busy. But would it be so terrible to have him let Francis or MacGregor take on a few more tasks, or even hire a few more permanent deputies? He could surely use the help. His only replies of late were a rather throaty snarl telling her that he had a job to do and he'd thank her not to tell him how to do it, like today. Which only made her all the more angry with him for treating her like a child – which she was not. She was not a child. Today she was nineteen…

Her first birthday alone, truly alone and without family. But she didn't regret being here, even if she all too often had to replace glasses or crockery, or hide from gunfire. Or chase no-goods from her back door – Mrs. Becker had wisely advised the use of a broom for them, for a good sturdy handle made a good enough weapon while she waited for assistance. Jim wanted her to learn to use a gun but she'd resisted. Oh, she'd tried a few times but cringed and closed her eyes, wished she had another hand to clap over both ears, even if he had stood so close behind her with his arms about her, his hand guiding her fingers, his voice low in her ear telling her to _breathe and squeeze the trigger._ There was a Colt now stashed in a kitchen cupboard just in case but she refused to touch it, hoped she would never have to.

Jim – it'd been so good to see him back, ragged but whole. She'd tried to help, be careful not to chatter at him, be ready with the coffee she knew he'd crave. She knew his actions, even if his comings and goings were unpredictable. His life had an ebb and flow that she managed to follow so that sometimes it felt as though they were living in an unspoken unison. There was the way he entered a room or tread town the stairs, always scanning the area for indications of trouble; the way he ate, coffee first and fast, then that peculiar way he had of exchanging his fork and knife from hand to hand throughout the entire meal. The absorbed focus when he wrote reports, his pencil making broad strokes across the page. The tidy way he kept his room, bed crisply made, clothes neatly folded in bureau drawers, boots shined and vest cleaned. There were subtler things too, like the way he would smile but not outright laugh at anything, the way he squinted when skeptical, the quietness of his entire person when thinking. The way he would brush his hair back into place once he removed his hat…

She shook herself out of her little reverie. It was hard to stay mad when she cared out him so. She should've realized that he'd want a bath – he so coveted that tub. That girl downstairs, that telegram, even the lack of cigars and the rain had all rattled him, the woman probably more than most. Jim Crown was normally unflappable when faced with all manner of unexpected situations – that's what made him so good at his job, so good at everything. It had to be the woman, then. For all his manliness, Jim Crown could be quite awkward around women. Not all of them, but certain ones. The brassy ones he did just fine with, but the gentle ones tied him up. Not that the girl downstairs was gentle, but she was in a gentle condition – Dulcey wondered if he'd ever encountered babies; the thought made her smile a little, in spite of her mixed feelings.

She crossed back into her bedroom, opened the trunk at the foot of her bed. Jim wanted the girl cleaned up and there were some things of her mother's that might fit her. If not, then they could be cut open a little at the seam to allow for her condition, for Margaret Coopersmith had been an ample woman. Dulcey lifted the clothes out. They were nothing special but had been too good to part with. She held them up to her cheek; even launded they still held a trace of her mother's scent – of washing and baking, the servant-smell of the back rooms of the Danforth house where they'd both worked. _Mama…_

Her hand grazed the cover of her photo album; she took it up amid an unexpected wave of fresh loneliness. The last time she took it out she'd been feeling lost and insignificant, and then Jim had come in, quiet and gentle, trying to smooth over his earlier harsh words at her, knowing how upset she'd been over John Wolf's needless death. That night had been the first time she'd sensed a difference in him, a separation of the man from the badge he wore, an opening of his heart that he did not allow many to see. But she recognized the precious rarity of it when the boy Whitey had kidnapped her and Jim had rescued her. She'd seen something in his eyes and knew…

It wasn't easy holding it all in and pretending it didn't exist. In truth, a lot of folks seemed to know anyway; even she had heard the whispers about town regarding the Marshal and his young landlady. Though sometimes Dulcey wasn't sure of the strength of their relationship. There was so much that wasn't said, that couldn't be said. And the heavy responsibility of his badge seemed to hold him back.

Some birthday – her Inn was closed and profits choked off yet again. Jim was angry and tired, and there was a half-wild woman downstairs to be helped. Sighing, Dulcey got up, closed the lid of the trunk and left her room.

Under the stares of the other prisoners, Francis and Febrizio the bartender had hung bed sheets and blankets along the sides and front of the girl's cell. She was still making threats about this person Del – her husband, Dulcey guessed – her uncombed hair, dirty face, and ragged outfit giving her a savage look as she taunted them.

"I need to give her these," Dulcey told Francis, indicating the things in her hands, a towel and the clothes, a cake of soap and a ewer of water. She'd have to look for a comb, if it could even get through that mess of dark snarls.

Francis gave her an unhappy look but stepped down off the short ladder; Febrizio took it and edged quickly away. "Step back," Francis told the girl in a strong voice, drawing his Colt and cocking it.

"You won't shoot me," she jeered, hands on what would normally be her hips. The pose only made her belly protrude even more, ungracefully and definitely unladylike. There was nothing feminine about her, Dulcey thought. She appeared all toughness, though surely her condition would elicit some maternal feelings? Maybe she needed a little kindness to unbend her. What woman wouldn't want a little cleanliness to feel better?

"After two days of your company, don't be so sure," Francis retorted.

"Really, Francis," Dulcey quickly chided, trying to give the girl and understanding smile but only receiving a glower in return. "You and Jim are nothing but cruel."

Francis muttered something but unlocked the cell door. The girl stepped back to the far wall and had fallen sullenly silent; her hands had moved to her belly, holding protectively. Keeping an eye on her as Jim had instructed to do with prisoners, Dulcey took a bare step inside the cell and set the things quickly on the floor. Then she backed out and Francis banged the door shut and swiftly locked it again.

"Just leave her alone now," he advised. "The doc's on his way."

"She can't have her baby in here!" Dulcey hissed to him.

"The Marshal wants her locked up."

"The Marshal is wrong," she told him. "It's indecent."

"You can tell him when he comes back," Francis told her. "And leave me out of it. Oh, by the way…" He flashed a grin at her. "Happy Birthday. Is there a cake for us to eat?"

"As if I knew when you'd return," she grumbled back, though she had thought of it. But celebrating alone wasn't exactly celebrating….

"Still got time to make one," he pointed out. "You make the best cakes in all of Cimarron."

"Flattery is not going to help your plea," Dulcey replied sourly, but could not keep her irritation – he had at least remembered.

"There's no one else to cook for besides the prisoners, what with the dining room closed," he pointed out, almost wheedling.

"Don't remind me," she retorted, then at the disappointed look coming across his face she hedged – he so did like her baking, and after days on the trail it was the least she could do. "Well, I suppose I could…"

Francis smiled, poked Febrizio in the ribs with a wink and herded him out of the room. Somehow Dulcey felt she'd been had. Happy Birthday, indeed. Stuck here with a closed dining room and an order to take care of Jim's latest trouble. Oh, yes, she'd tell Marshal Crown. Jim and his self-assurance – well, he wasn't always right. A jail was no place for a woman to give birth. Surely Doctor Kihlgren would agree. Dulcey glanced around at the other prisoners, the three soldiers and the lone man. At her look they glanced away, but it was obvious they'd been watching. Her gaze came back to the girl – what to say to her? _Welcome to Cimarron – sorry to hear of your condition…_

"Just what're you staring at?"

Dulcey flushed; she hadn't really been staring. Such a tiny thing, all dirty and ragged, yet obviously great with child. And so very angry. And alone… "Are you in any discomfort?" she asked.

The other woman awkwardly sat down on the cot. "It's all right. He'll come – Del will come for me. He'll bust me out of here and take the hide off that Marshal for manhandling me. You'll see – he'll come. Del will come for me."

"Why don't you freshen up?" Dulcey countered. At the dark-eyed stare pinned onto her she continued, "I'll just close this…" and tugged at the sheet-turned-curtain. "I tried to find something to fit…oh, what's wrong?" she cried as the other girl suddenly stiffened with obvious pain.

"I reckon this baby is on its way," the girl gasped. "Oh, that hurt…" She blinked back tears of pain and pushed some sweaty hair out of her eyes. "Damn that Marshal of yours, making me ride that far. This is all his fault!" She got back up and crammed dirty fingers through her tumbled hair, paced a little and breathed hard as if working through a cramp.

"What's your name?" Dulcey inquired quietly, hating to leave her alone. She was young, she needed help…

The girl eased up. "Rachel Rose Talbot," she shot out, "not that it's any of your business. But this here baby of mine will be a Larson. Del will be back to get me – he'll take me away and we'll be married and it will be our baby. He'll kill that Marshal for what he done to me. He'll kill him! You wait and see."

Dulcey wondered just how much of a threat it was. Despite the girl's conviction, more than likely this Larson fellow had gone deep into the Outlet and would be out of the Territory by now, far away from any responsibility he might have to her. There was a sad selfishness to his untamed part of the country, she had learned, one that severed promises and shifted intentions – and far too often shattered hearts.

She whirled as the office door opened quickly and slammed – Jim was back, shoving two beaten men before him and limping a little more heavily than before. "You're doubling up," he told the new lawbreakers as MacGregor handed over his rifle to Randy Morgan and grabbed the cell keys.

"What's this?" one asked dully, pointing to the sheeted cell.

"None of your business," Jim barked back. He was sweaty and disheveled; the knuckles on his right hand were grazed, and a reddened bruise had appeared on one cheek. "Where's the doc?" he asked Dulcey, locking the cell door.

"Francis said he's on his way," she reported, then hesitated just a little. She didn't want to freshen his ire, but sometimes you got the most out of him if you didn't wait for a more formal approach. Keeping that girl in a cell was just plain wrong, morally wrong. And she wasn't all that afraid of Marshal James Crown, despite his temper-fueled words. So she firmed up her resolve. "Jim, don't you think…?"

He glanced at the girl's cell and gave a bare nod of approval. "Is the tub empty?"

"Yes, Jim."

He dumped the keys on his desk. "The Senator arrive yet?"

"No, Jim. As I was saying…" But he'd turned on his heel and was walking away – oh, the very rudeness of him!

"Jim, wait," she commanded.

"No," he called back.

"Jim!" It was all she could do to not stamp her foot – he'd like that sort of female action, would probably laugh at her, and then there would be no taking her seriously. "I must talk to you," she told him. "It's important."

He whirled and gave her a measure of scrutiny, squinting in that way of his, but then he strode back ove. "No, to whatever it is," he told her in firm tone, but there was a trace of something else in his hazel gaze. Then he unexpectedly took her hand. "She stays there," he added, flickering a look to the cells. "Dulcey…"

"But-"

"No…" The set of his mouth eased, and a faint smile worked across his lips. "I'm sorry," he began. "I didn't even give you a proper greeting earlier – I'm sorry…"

And then he stepped in, just one step closer, and she could see the weariness lining his face, the stubble along his jaw, the circles under his red-rimmed eyes, the unruly set to his dark hair. And for a second her determination dipped…

"I almost forgot…" he began in that rare quiet tone of his. He took her other hand, gave them both a gentle squeeze. "I wanted to tell you…" His glittering gaze deepened; Dulcey's heart bumped inside her ribcage – he remembered, after all-

His office door rattled back open and Asa Reeves barreled through. "Marshal!" he exclaimed over the emerging clang of the fire bell. "Feed store's afire! O'Brien's boy is trapped inside!"

The moment was ripped away. Jim dropped her hands, though one came onto her shoulder, moving her gently aside. "Stay here," he told her as MacGregor and Francis brushed past, the touch of his fingertips heavy with concern. "Watch for the direction of the wind…" He followed Reeves back out – the door slammed behind them.

"He'll come for me!" Rachel Rose Talbot shrilled from behind the sheet into the torn emptiness. "Del will come – he'll burn the rest of this town down, Marshal! He'll-"

But the rest was cut off as a rumble filled the air and then an explosion burst forth. The Inn shook and the two women screamed in fear.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

The blast knocked Crown off his feet but he instinctively tucked himself in and rolled safely onto one shoulder. Debris rained down upon him, twisted wood and broken glass and lumps of burning grain; he ducked and batted it away then straightened. It was eerily quiet. Hazy smoke began to fill the street. Human forms began to stagger into view, dusty, blackened, bleeding, and silent with shock.

"To the Inn!" he commanded as the first of the injured came his way on a new rush of shouts and cries. He took the ripped sleeve of Harry Mulligan from the nearby Mercantile, who was assisting two women. "Get to the Wayfarer's." The Inn across the street was safe enough for now, unless the wind took hold…

He got moving, repeating his directions, helping and guiding, working his way toward the burning building, its roof now half gone and fire licking orange out of the opening. Men there had formed a brigade, throwing buckets of water onto what flames showed, dipping into the many fire drums lined along the street, racing to the troughs and back. Fire in a town made mostly of wood…

"Where?" Crown bellowed to Francis through the smoke issuing from the broken windows and leeching out from the building's joist connections.

"In the back room!" Francis shouted back. "But the ceiling is coming down. Strickland and his boys already tried going in – Danny came out with a broken leg."

Crown unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it over. "Get everyone to the Inn and find the doc." Beyond him MacGregor was directing the best location for the approaching fire wagon. Crown grabbed a bucket of water from the hands of one man and doused himself, then turned and sprinted inside the burning building.

The hiss and crackle of fire took over from the noise outside. The smoke clawed over him; he instinctively dropped to the floor to find some air. Heat assaulted him on the way down, soaking him in sweat and making his eyes run. He scrubbed the wetness away and began to crawl through the creaking and snapping of burning and shifting timbers. The dirty splintered floor quickly snagged his clothes and his bare hands. His clothes began to steam where he'd wet them. He quickly realized he was going to lose his sense of direction, twisted his foot,dug his spur into the floor and raked hard. The gouge was a traceable scar in the planking. Dragging his heel Crown crept forward, gouging as he went.

"Robbie!" he shouted into the gray smoke swirling before him. The child was only seven; he'd be afraid, maybe even hurt. "Boy? Where are you?" Crown coughed as the acrid taste of smoke barreled down his throat. "Robbie!" he called again, and paused to listen. Burning sounds rose up around him, timbers cracking and groaning, paper and fabric sizzling and flaring, the air wheezing with heated breath. Crown pushed on, working to recall the store layout – he didn't come in here that often. From this angle it was even more difficult to discern, but he remembered the long counter, the barrels, the piled sacking-

He sensed movement over his right shoulder, rolled the other way and felt the _whoosh_ as a beam lunged toward him. It dropped with a spray of orange embers into the spot where he'd been, half-blackened and still burning. Crown cursed, dug in his spur and dragged himself forward again.

Nothing in this corner – he turned on his belly and headed the opposite way but there was too much flame – tongues of it jeered at him like some imaginary dragon's breath. Fireballs of clumpy grain began to roll drunkenly toward him – one singed his hand before he could draw it away. Crown pivoted, hoping that the boy wasn't in that fiery hell and praying that if he was, then he'd be already free of the pain and terror hovering in there.

"Robbie!" he called, but the smoke caught in his chest and pulled at his breath. He stopped and coughed and spat, eyes running, sweat streaming; gulped and coughed some more, put his nose into his sleeve to draw a few more breaths. The heat was deepening, the crackling was louder, and a roar was setting up beyond him – the fire was taking good hold. Crown pushed his way under a fallen beam, cleared some sacking out of his way. His gouge trail was going to meander all over this floor if he didn't find the boy soon, and would not be of any help. Time danced over him, dragging fingers of warning down his spine. Reluctantly he angled the other way, scraped along the floor, worry beginning to jig in him – death could be so cruel, but death of the young... Ted O'Brien would be completely broken up, for the boy was his youngest

He heard a fresh _craack!_ and drew back but nothing came his way. He heard it again, two thwacks off to the side, then some shouts; fresh dampness worked across his cheek – water…The firemen were working this side of the building, opening a wall to get the water inside.

For a moment the smoke cleared, hissing in the fresh damp and sucked up into the opening, but the fire re-lit itself from the new source of air and a blaze of flaming orange went up in front of him. He saw something, scrubbed furiously at his smarting eyes, but then it was gone. Or was it? He thought... So he dug in his elbows and shoved himself forward. The smoke rolled back in, obscuring everything. He kept going, one hand reaching out, disappearing in front of him, feeling nothing. But he thought he'd seen…

His pantleg abruptly snagged on a ragged edge of floorboard, scraped his leg to shake it free tugged to clear it. Above him there was a sudden shift of timbers. Out of the edge of his watering vision he saw a beam lunge his way –

It fell onto the counter, held for a moment, then crashed through in a groan of protest. The wood gave way in all directions – one heavy piece glanced off his calf. Crown fumbled at the strike of numbing pain, momentarily unable to move. The timber slipped further, quickly grabbing at his ankle and then groaning to a stop. He flailed but was trapped fast with his spur dug in deep. Crown rolled furiously to his side and tried to rip it free, wiggling his foot and ignoring the quivering pain dancing up his leg. A wave of orange fire leapt close and he had to duck down, felt its searing breath too close on his cheek. Time began running over him, through him, panic trying to take hold – he had to get out, had to find the boy. He growled and shoved it back, sweat hard, got his other boot up, kicked at the splintered wood – no help. He shifted, hooked the toe of his other boot under a flat section, tried to heave, ignoring the burning and crackling that was beginning to leap up behind him afresh. Still no movement. He kicked at it again and again, tried to get the flat of his boot sole under it and push, push upward all the while wiggling his numbing ankle underneath – it felt bruised, but not broken, though he'd once walked on a broken ankle for two miles chasing a rank horse that'd dumped him in a Texas lightning storm…

Something gave way; he strained mightily, twisted his body, managed to get his hands on a splintered edge – if he could just get it to one side…

What was that – did he hear a moan? Was it the boy, or just another timber fixing to let go? Crown crammed his free foot in like a lever and shoved hard – and then he popped free—

He rolled quickly and thrust himself forward one body length, two; swimming across the roughened floor, reaching out, fingers stretching, seeking…

He found fabric, then a small arm; a limp body followed. Robbie O'Brien, smudged and sallow, his other forearm torn and bleeding, a long scrape tracking across his little cheek.

"Here, son…Robbie…"

The boy roused up at the voice, coughing and then crying. His fingers twisted into Crown's shirtfront and hung on. Crown scooped the boy to his chest, turned and found the gouge trail he'd made, began to make his way back. When it meandered off to his right he picked up the score opposite. The air was cooling a little, ad water was running in a stream across the broken floor from the fire hose. He dragged himself through it and kept going. A shaft of sunlight unexpectedly emerged in front of him, highlighting the flaky, glowing ash, casting a throbbing glow to the burning wood around him. He thought he saw the doorway, recognized the green paint…

Then he was there and he shoved his feet under him and unsteadily stood, coughing and heaving but moving, then running, finally free of the spectacle and into clear air. The gathering crowd parted for him. He caught a glimpse of the fire wagon, the heavy stream of water and the lingering fingers of fire, and the smoke, billowing gray and then white. It was better on his flesh and his eyes were clearing. His boots hit the first step of the Inn and he barreled through the doors, lurching as his ankle gave way.

The dining room was a collection of chaos. Tables were pushed this way and that to make seats and beds for patients. People were milling about in tattered clothing with skin blackened and blistered, blood oozing. Doctor Lars Kihlgren, ever-present top hat now missing and shirt sleeves exposed, moved among the wounded, examining, listening, barking directions to his wife and others. A smoky haze drifted under the expansive ceiling, hemming in the noise.

"Doc!" Crown called over the din, laying the moaning boy down onto a hastily cleared table. His gaze quickly found Dulcey, bright hair shining and her arms full of towels and water, offering and assisting. She glanced up, saw him, and the crease across her brow eased. "How is everyone?" he asked the doctor, surveying the wounded.

"Burns, cuts, broken bones," Kihlgren replied easily. "That fire getting any closer?" He reached for the child even as the boy's father tottered up, dazed and both hands bandaged.

"The boys are knocking it down now. Without the wind it won't spread any further."

"He has a broken arm," Kihlgren told Ted O'Brien. "I don't find any concussion." The doctor cast a professional eye onto Crown, moustaches bristling. "Anything on you need treating?"

"Some singed hide is all," Crown reported and found Dulcey slipping into place beside him. She handed him a towel and a cup of water; he wiped and drank, nodding his thanks – just how did she always know what he needed? "How's the Talbot girl?"

"She's in labor," Kihlgren told him. "She'll likely deliver by nightfall. I'll have Martha attend her – got my own hands full with all these folks."

"Jim, shouldn't we move her?" Dulcey timidly asked him.

He shook his head and drained the cup, which reminded him just how badly he needed a bath, now more than ever. "No."

"But, Jim…"

"No, I said." But he tempered his re-emerging irritation. He wasn't upset with her, but with the continuing frustration of this day. "The best place for her is right in that cell. Where is that train?" he asked the approaching MacGregor and glancing at the clock – far past three and marching into the next hour. "I thought the Senator would be here by two." He didn't wait for an answer but headed for his office and the ewer of water he knew was there.

"Harvey's looking into it now," Mac answered, following him in.

Dulcey came up quickly behind. "Jim…"

"What?" he asked shortly, quickly pouring water into the bowl.

"You can't be serious," she pressed. "Have her child in a jail? _Your_ jail, Marshal Crown?"

He sucked up some patience that he wasn't sure would hold. He wasn't mad at her, he wasn't, he told himself. "Dulcey, she is a criminal and she belongs in jail. I'm sorry about her condition but I didn't make it." He cupped water and rinsed his heated face and neck. Better, but it wasn't even close to satisfying his craving for that bath. "Believe it or not, this is a chance for her to turn herself around," he continued, reaching for the towel.

She opened her mouth to say something on that, then stopped herself. Her lips came back together and she frowned a little. "It's not seemly," she finally said but her voice was not convincing him or her.

"That may be," Crown agreed, wiping. "Sometimes it's not fair, either, but it has to start somewhere."

Dulcey's brow knitted up in a pretty way again, even if she was surely going at some female thoughts inside her brain. "Do you think her husb – her…that man Del Larson will come for her?"

He nodded and straightened, slung the towel around his neck. "That's my bet."

"And if he doesn't?"

Just like her to come up with thoughts similar to his own. "Then I'll go back out after him," he said in simple reply.

"And what of her?"

"The law is the law, Dulcey," he reminded her and saw her look wilt a little. "I can't change it," he added sympathetically because he hated to see the hurt working up in her blue eyes. She wasn't one to be hard-hearted, he knew, and her nurturing nature saw goodness and hope where others only saw emptiness. It was difficult to resist her when emotion worked across her face just so. She felt things so keenly deep inside.

Her birthday, he remembered. Well, he surely hadn't had much time to wish her well, or even properly greet her after days of being gone, what with the fight, and the pregnant girl prisoner, and then the fire. Not to mention having to close her dining room for the time being. And now the train late. He should tell her, before anything else-

"Jim!" Francis jumped breathlessly into the doorway. "There's something going on down at Pony Jane's."

"Not in the daytime, there isn't," Crown retorted, and moved back toward the dining room. If the train was going to be late then he'd just take his bath, thank you very much and the Senator could wait a little more. Preston Plumb knew Jim Crown, and knew what Jim Crown liked and did not like – dirt for one thing. But there was Dulcey…

He had something for her – but he needed time. He wanted to do it right by here – she deserved that much from him. "Now you just leave me be," he ordered Francis and turned to her. "Dulcey, I wanted to tell you…"

Two shots echoed down the street –a woman screamed, footsteps pounded and someone shouted.

Crown cursed, then mumbled an instant apology – again, it was broken between them.

Dulcey stepped aside, a mixture of sympathy and disappointment filling her blue eyes. She put out her hand – Crown could do no more than press the dirty towel into it. Probably some amorous customer too drunk and calling in too early. Well, it would be handled quickly. He wanted that bath and he was going to get it, gunshots, fights, fires or not. And Dulcey…

He wasn't going to forget Dulcey's birthday.


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

"Better?" Dulcey asked Rachel Rose Talbot as she examined the freshly scrubbed face, the smoothened hair, and Margaret Coopersmith's clean nightgown just a little tight over the big belly. She looked better – she had to at least feel somewhat better, too. Like her or not, Dulcey would've assisted her in any way she could – it was part of her nature, this yen to help, to take care of people, to feed them, give them a bed, perhaps some talk, small comforts in this place of harshness. Even if it wasn't always appreciated. She liked to think that the kindness might one day be remembered.

But the other girl had nodded, and now eased back. "Guess there's nothing to do now but have this child."

"The doctor's wife will be here soon," Dulcey told her, glancing back into the dining room. Martha Kihlgren was moving among the patients lingering there from the fire, checking them one more time. "Mrs. Kihlgren is very nice," she offered uncertainly, not wishing to take on any more rebuffs from this hard-hearted girl. And she didn't really feel like talking, anyway; a heavy feeling was clinging to her shoulders, one that she couldn't entirely name.

The other girl gestured. "How's them people out there? I heard the ruckus…"

"Mostly gone now," Dulcey answered. "There was a fire and explosion at the feed and grain store."

"Feed must've been stored wet," Rachel Rose commented. At Dulcey's stare of confusion she shrugged and added, "I come from Nebraska way – seen it before." She shifted on the cot, made a face of discomfort. "Your Marshal, he do the helping?"

_Your Marshal…_Jim Crown wasn't hers, or anyone else's, Dulcey thought. Not exactly…

"He was there," she nodded. In the middle of it all, saving that child from certain death, ably serving the town with his badge. He was that good, almost too good, almost…unreachable. It made him so complicated, despite his simple appearance. It was as if he was two people – that straightforward Marshal that most knew, and then the other man, the one that stood behind that badge, the one she longed to see more of.

"Big man, the Marshal. Heard of him all the way from Texas to Kansas." Rachel Rose paused, as if trying to find a good way to say the next things on her mind. She was calmer now; her indignation had eased, making room for some wary friendliness. "He bellows a lot, don't he?"

"Sometimes more than a lot." The honest thought came out over Dulcey's lips without meaning to – why was she feeling so selfish? "He's my friend," she amended in a softer tone.

"Some friend, Missy." The girl's dark eyes went bright with amusement. She rubbed her belly, breathed heavily for a bit. "All he does is run around and holler at you."

"He's busy," Dulcey insisted. "And we help each other…" _He tried to say something to me…maybe…_

Rachel Rose gestured. "You own this place?"

"Yes," Dulcey nodded, half-turning away. The other girl had sensed something about her and Jim, and was going to press. _Walk away now, find something to do, _she told herself. _All she'll do is upset you…_

"You let him put his jail in here – why?"

Dulcey shrugged. "He needed a place…" She'd so wanted him to stay – the town needed him, she'd needed him…and now—

"He's taking over."

"No, it's not like that." Dulcey shook her head.

"Gotta be some reason…" Rachel Rose stopped and looked up with a smile. She scrambled awkwardly up off the bunk and approached. "You like him?" she guessed in a whisper and then hissed with amusement, "he's old!"

"Not so old." This time Dulcey did turn aside because she knew her face was going to show everything. But many girls married older men. Some in Providence, the wealthy ones, were betrothed right after their debut. The prettier ones, anyway.

"Well, how old are you?" Rachel Rose asked her.

"Nineteen." _Today, in fact…old enough, but not pretty enough. He's a U.S. Marshal and way too busy…_

"Don't waste time pining for a lawman," the other girl counseled with some edge of kindness in her voice. "They're the worst kind of men."

It was in Dulcey to ask just how she knew this but refrained, not wanting to appear unkind. And Jim was so often the very image of his badge. But she knew that, accepted it even…usually. Except maybe today. She'd thought that today, just this once, he'd be Jim Crown her friend and not U. S. Marshal Crown. But, as usual, there'd just been no time…

"You got this place," the girl was saying. "You don't need anything else – no man, no babies…" she looked down at her own belly, gave it a light stroke.

_But I want him…_

"Dulcey?" Martha Kilhlgren appeared in the corridor, a satchel clutched in her hands.

"Over here," Dulcey beckoned.

The doctor's wife hesitantly came forward. Dulcey held open the sheet so she could see. "Is this the Marshal's doing?" Martha demanded. She glanced around, saw the other prisoners, six of them now all pretending to be busy. "This girl needs someplace…"

"Well, for right now, this is what Jim wants," Dulcey explained, still not convinced herself that this was one of Jim's better decisions. But she would obey it, albeit unhappily. She tried talking to him about it, but his refusal had been outright. He could be so vexing when he was adamant, as rigid as a stone.

Martha looked like she was going to argue as well, but years of married life to a physician likely changed her mind. And she also knew the Marshal, and his determination. "All right, then," she nodded, sighing. "Then we're going to need some things, dear. Towels and water, a blanket or two, all right? I've the rest here."

Dulcey made her way through the emptying dining room, held a thought for the loss of paying customers because of Jim's edict, but kept going. He was right, of course, a woman should have a baby in private. But then again, a woman shouldn't be in a sheeted jail cell having her baby, but in a proper bed, outlaw or no. She supposed he thought women – the decent and proper kind – should be docile, quiet and obedient. And pretty. What man didn't like a pretty woman? Even the girls at Pony Jane's were pretty, if somewhat harsh. Jim liked those girls – he liked going over there. No doubt he'd take his time coming back. The girls were far prettier there, more experienced. More to his liking.

She slowly pulled together the things Martha Kihlgren requested, her hands performing the work while her thoughts flitted with notions. Maybe this wasn't the place for her after all. Maybe she would be better off returning to Providence, to the Danforths and the security of her old position. Maybe her decision to leave New England had been just too hasty and ill-conceived. To think that she might be able to make it on her own was folly. And as for she and Jim…

Perhaps she expected too much from him. He was a U. S. Marshal, horribly busy, wedded to his badge. She knew it and accepted it – didn't she? How could she ask for any more of him? How could he offer her any more? Maybe, she thought sadly, there was really nothing more that could draw them any closer. And maybe he'd been trying to tell her that, and she'd been too silly-headed to realize… Nineteen, indeed. She might as well be twelve, a – _a child… _

"Can I help you, Dulcey-lass?" MacGregor boomed from the doorway.

Dulcey whirled, wiping quickly at the wetness that had appeared on one cheek. "MacGregor, thank you – I can do it," she stuttered. "I just need some water…"

He came and poured from the kettle while she held the ewer and bit her lip from letting any of it spill out. _Not now_, she remonstrated herself as the tears thickened behind her lashes. _Stop it…_ "When do you think Jim will be back?" she tried to ask in a nonchalant voice, but it came out like an angry squawk. All those girls at Pony Jane's with their silks and smiles and lures…That's what he liked – no promises, no substance…

"Like as not the problem over to Pony Jane's will be easily cured," MacGregor predicted. "But in the meantime I'd best keep a close watch on those cells in case that outlaw Larson thinks to come after the girl."

"It would be better if he didn't come just now," Dulcey told him. "Those cells are no place for a man at the moment."

"I think I'll agree with you," he nodded. "Though you have to admit the brilliance of that simple plan of Jim's…"

Yes, he was brilliant, confident – and he was down at that house of ill-repute, no doubt enjoying himself despite any seriousness going on. He was a handsome man; he didn't even have to throw himself at any of those girls. They probably all gave him big smiles and big offers whenever he went there. And Jim Crown was a man who knew what he liked…

"He knows, lass," Mac told her, breaking the silence filling the room. She flinched at the closeness of his guess. "He dinna forget you. It's just that his attention is on other things right now."

Plenty of other things, like bright feathers and revealing dresses and all sorts of other invitations and temptations. "I know," Dulcey nodded, stiffening her features. "He has a lot to be concerned about, I should think…down at that place…" It came out too curt – why was her heart thudding with selfishness?

"Here…" MacGregor drew her away from the stove. "This is no day for long faces." He reached awkwardly down to a chair at the table. "Mayhap this will do for now." Smiling broadly, he withdrew a lumpy, paper-wrapped package tied with knotted string and held it out to her. "Happy Birthday, Dulcey my girl."

A gift – for her… Dulcey's cheeks heated with quick guilt, his kindness making her instantly ashamed. "Oh, MacGregor…I don't deserve…" Truly she didn't, not now…

"First birthday on your own, far away from home," Mac told her. "I hope you consider us your family now."

"I do," she nodded, brushing away some re-appearing tears. Her mother gone, and her father, too – she'd missed him by mere weeks. And from MacGregor's carefully worded replies to her questions about him, she knew that Charleton Coopersmith hadn't been an overly upstanding person about town. And she'd come to realize that she couldn't conjure up much feeling for the man that she rarely remembered. Her dream of meeting him and living with him had been a childish notion – though it had given her the motivation to strike out on her own. But while there really hadn't been a father in her life, Angus MacGregor was as kindly a one as she could ever want. He was a dear friend, Francis, too – and Jim…_He's my dearest friend. _That was it, just a friend…

Mac pressed the package into her hands. "Open it, lass. You canna enjoy it if you canna see it."

She thrust her troubled thoughts aside because she wanted to please him. And she was pleased – and surprised. Dulcey pulled at the string but the knots were fast, could not help but smile at his own hand at the wrapping. After a bit of work some folded fabric rolled over her hands, well stitched and expertly trimmed. It was a soft weave, wool…a plaid of blacks and greens, with a thin stripe of red and yellow worked in. Dulcey held it up – a full cape, replete with a collar and a soft flannel lining.

"MacGregor," she breathed, wonder and delight filling her. "How beautiful! This fabric, the pattern…Where did you find it way out here? I've only seen some back in Providence…"

"A little part of my past," he told her, his light blue eyes alight with pride. "'Twas from my family – some were weavers of the cloth. I've kept it for a special occasion – and I canna think of anyone more deserving than you, lass. I thought it might keep you warm when the nights and days grow cold again." As she lifted it around her shoulders he assisted, smiling proudly. "Ais, tis pretty on you, lass. I had Mrs. Green the dressmaker fashion it up – and held her to a sacred secret not to tell a soul. Do you like it?"

A special gift – made just for her. She could hardly recall when…the kindness of him poured through her, clogging her throat with gratitude. "Mac, oh thank you – I – it's so special." She reached up and hugged him then kissed his cheek, careful not to bump his arm.

"You deserve more," he told her. "I'm glad you've stayed – Cimarron is the brighter for it." He grinned. "And a prettier partner no man has ever had."

"Dulcey!" Mrs. Kihlgren bustled through the kitchen door, a keening cry following her. "Bring those things – I need you now. Mr. MacGregor, you come no closer than the office. We'll manage the rest."

"Is it the girl's time?" MacGregor asked.

"Yes." Martha pulled the cape from around Dulcey's shoulders and laid it on the back of the chair, picked up the ewer and Dulcey's hand and took her from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

V.

Pony Jane's Saloon and Gentlemen's Emporium was complete pandemonium all tied up in bright silks, quivering feathers and cheap perfume. Crown took a breath and plunged headfirst into the exact middle of it all.

"Who's doing the shooting?" he demanded of the swirling crowd.

"She's locked the door!"

"She's got a gun…"

"Help her, Marshal," pleaded a petite blonde who called herself Lacy. "She sounds like she's being ripped apart!"

They clustered about him, imploring his help. At any other time he'd welcome the closeness of fragranced and painted beauty. They might be a little rough around the edges, but every one of them knew how to properly welcome a man. Pony Jane chose her girls carefully, and generally ran a carefully controlled establishment. As it was, young Francis was quickly getting lost in the sea of gussied-up loveliness; Crown tugged on his shoulder and brought him back to the attention at hand.

"Crown!" Pony Jane waded through the fray, tall and imposing in burgundy and black, her strong face now as stormy as the color of her freshly dyed auburn hair.

"Pony Jane," Crown greeted in an ominous tone. "This isn't a good day for sporting troubles. Just what is going on over here?" The land rush, he thought distantly, weeks old and miles away and still it excited folks – too much so. "You don't usually run your business in daylight hours," he noted as he heard thumps and scuffles overhead, punctuated by shouting. He got his boots moving and headed for the stairs to the rooms above, Pony Jane following, the rest trailing behind. "Got some special to-do I didn't know about?"

A fresh swell of female voices started again, all trying to tell him what was going on and what to do – never had he had so much useless help. "Stop!" he roared at them. As one they fell silent. "Pony Jane?"

She gestured down the hall where a spangled girl was hovering at a doorway. "I told Effie to stand watch," she explained. "There's something bad going on in Bessie's room, Crown. Shooting and shouting and all kinds of whatnot. All our customers were out last night – you know me, two o'clock sharp and I close the doors."

"Maybe Bessie kept someone after hours," he grunted back.

The madam shook her head no. "None of my girls do that – they know the rules. And Bessie has been with me longer than the rest – I trust her."

Something hit the door from the inside, breaking in a clatter against the wood.

"Keep them back," Crown ordered, drawing his .44. "Effie…?"

She was crying, her made up face streaky with results, her piled hair awry, the lacy dressing gown slipping off one shoulder. "I was in there with Bessie, and then there was a – a person…they were hiding – and they had a gun, grabbed Bessie – I ran out and now the door's locked – and there's been shooting…what if they shot her, Marshal?"

He eased toward the safety of the group, then noiselessly stepped back to closed door, ears straining over the collective breath of the group behind him. "This is Marshal Crown!" he announced. "Throw out your gun and give yourself up!"

In the quiet he heard it – a faint click – and dove aside just as a bullet plowed through a door panel and buried itself into the wall beyond. The crowd at the end of the hall shrieked and drew back. Crown rolled up, unhurt. "Harming a federal marshal is against the law!" he told the shooter as his brain dug in furiously – this room held the corner of the building and faced the street so the lawbreaker would have to exit this way – or jump off the balcony to escape. There was a connecting door to the next room on this side, though.

He motioned to Francis and the young deputy silently approached. "Keep him busy," he whispered. "I'm going in through the other room."

Francis nodded and took up a spot along the end of the wall away from the door, settling his rifle against his shoulder "You'd better give up!" he shouted as Crown slipped into place beside the other door. "You'll hang if the Marshal dies…"

_Good thinking,_ Crown silently praised him with an encouraging nod. Let the shooter think he'd hit a federal lawman – that might make him hold off on letting any more bullets fly. He took a breath, let his mind work through the ideas formulating within his brain. There was no way of knowing if he'd harmed Bessie or not. Right now the only way to assess the situation was to get in that room, and it would be hell not knowing where she or the shooter might be situated.

_Thwang!_ Another bullet crashed through the door. Everyone drew back, voices alarmed. Crown crept into the adjoining room – and almost cried out.

A bathtub squatted across from him, taunting him with its deep sides and merrily boiling water on the stove beside it. A bathing room, dammit! Crown's fingers brushed the smooth edge, longing welling in him even as more scuffling and muffled shouts came from the inner connecting door. Soon, he promised himself, reluctantly drawing his hand away. Business first – as always. Using the same noiseless steps as before, he eased over to the connecting door, gently and ever so slowly tried the knob – it turned.

He stilled his hand, waited for Francis' next call – something about calling for the doc and an imminent charge of murder – then twisted the knob hard and dove inside Bessie's room—

His sweeping vision took in the tall bordello girl wrapped in shimmering blue crouched on a yellow velvet upholstered chair and the sleeve of the shooter holding her wrist fast. The lawbreaker was wearing a crimson-colored dress – dammit, it was another woman!

She dropped Bessie's arm as Crown rolled to his feet and went to aim; with only some misgiving Crown got off a shot with his .44. Bessie slid off the chair and the other woman cried out. Crown advanced-

He didn't expect the boot that caught his arm; The forearm muscle instantly numbed, and the .44 dropped from his hand. The shooter whirled and ran, red skirts billowing – she was going for the balcony-

Crown dove again, noting something queer as the other woman moved, she was taller than most girls, and the outfit wasn't even fitted to her, and she had booted feet... and a long face holding a scruffy beard…

A beard-

It was a man.

Minute relief tore through Crown as he tackled the odd personage, for he'd been concerned about just where he was going to put his hands on the body. But then he connected strongly with the man. They crashed through the balcony doors, momentum pushing them beyond. Crown tried to haul back but stumbled instead, his tender ankle rolling. He settled for a flailing jump, realized the tactical error – they were too close to the railing. In a second they were hurtling over the balusters into empty space – and then plummeting straight down…

He managed to gauge his landing, rolled and got to his knees, bruised and dusty but unhurt – or at least no new noticeable pains. The crowd from the hallway quickly spilled out onto the boardwalk around him, Bessie among them. From up above Francis now stood, covering them with his rifle. Crown hauled up the scrawny dazed man, shook him in his grasp; the gaudy outfit slipped down over the narrow hips and trailed into the dust.

"Pete Matthews, you son of a skunk!" Crown declared with surprise. Matthews had escaped off a prison wagon near the Texas border three weeks ago and Crown figured the outlaw had worked his way well into the Outlet by now. Apparently he'd stopped off for some provisioning before he went. "I guess you thought you'd hide away in Pony Jane's and no one would notice?"

"Would've worked, too, if she hadn't come along…" the downtrodden man mumbled, reaching for the arm that bled from Crown's bullet. "Heard tell you was supposed to be out of town…"

"Just got back," Crown informed him, though the hours had slipped by since. "What were you doing in there, anyway?"

"Snuck in last night – to get out of the rain…"

"You set your sights too high, boy," Crown retorted. "You should've stuck to the loft at the livery. Well, come on. We're cutting into Bessie's time here. Miss Bessie…"

He picked up the red shiny get-up and handed it to the buxom, dark-haired woman. His appraising eye went over her, taking in the disheveled pile of dark hair, the bruise rising on one cheek, the clinging blue fabric hugging her body – but seemingly no worse for the ordeal. "Might want to get this washed first," Crown advised. "Oh, and there's a bounty on him – come by my office sometime and we can work out the particulars."

The younger woman took the dress from him, her long fingers expertly gliding over his hand and then lingering. "Thanks, Marshal…I owe you one," she smiled in her beguiling contralto. Her gaze ran hungrily over him. She gestured up toward Francis, then let the hand come to rest on the curve of her hip, turning to give him a view of her ample profile. "Why don't you have your deputy take him to the jail, and then come on back inside and wash up? On the house, for saving my life…"

A wash – in a tub…Oh, Lord. Crown almost moaned – did she know what she was asking? He could easily partake of the tub up there and no doubt be left undisturbed; Bessie would surely oblige, even indulge him in some special ways. Her shapely figure, her white teeth and sparkling eyes were a temptation for his sorry state of mind – and body. Even a year ago he might've accepted the offer – Bessie was a lotta woman to enjoy. She knew it, and knew that he knew it, too. And the tub…his for the taking…

"Maybe next time," he allowed with a smile, to Mathews' open-mouthed stare. "Francis, let's go!" he called up to his deputy. He gave a wave to Pony Jane and the rest, then turned and marched away. "Take him," he directed Francis when the younger man had caught up and returned his .44. "And start filling my tub. And find out about that train. I have an errand to run before I go back."

Dulcey's birthday –twice now he'd tried to wish her well and he couldn't even get a word off his tongue before the next disaster came calling. As if a good wish was enough. She deserved more from him – much more.

He did have a gift for her – he just needed one more thing to add to it. If the day had gone his way he'd have taken her for a buggy ride and those wagging tongues be damned. The girl spent way too much time in her own kitchen. Or he would've taken her to Hardesty or Guymon, give her an excuse to take off her apron and don a pretty dress and put up her hair like that night of the dance when the Gage brothers had been in town. Though he hadn't had any time with her that particular night he'd surely noticed her. How could you not, what with the new dress she wore and that hair all piled and curled…? She'd taken his breath away, given many another man a wandering eye in her direction as well. Though that night it'd been Gene Gage that'd monopolized her time…

Gene Gage, Robert "Whitey" White, even John Wolf and Jing McQueen – young men all taken up by Dulcey's kindness and prettiness. Others, too – farmers and cowboys and soldiers, merchants and workingmen. There was MacGregor's kindly eye and Francis' wishful gazes. They admired her – they all wanted a moment with her, a smile or a greeting, a touch. And no doubt many dreamed of something more. As for himself…

"Afternoon, Marshal," greeted round-bellied Stanley Evers as Crown crossed the threshold of the General Store. The store owner smoothened the few remaining hairs on the top of his head, tried to straighten up beyond his five foot frame. "Something you need today?"

"Cigars," Crown replied. Though he'd be disappointed in them, the need for tobacco was second to his want of a bath. He special order his own brand from St. Louis, but a look down the street showed the train depot still empty.

Evers beamed and bustled back behind the counter. "Why sure, Marshal! Got a good supply here. Get those wrapped up for you straightaway – here, boy, for the Marshal… That all you need today, Marshal? Anything else?"

Crown nodded, got perusing – where was it? He nodded to a few customers and worked past farm tools, rope, baskets, dry goods, the big barrels of flour and pickles, kept going…it'd been a long time since he'd looked in this particular section of the store. Stanley got back out from behind the counter and began following. "If you let me know what you're looking for…?" he began with a curious frown.

"I'll find it," Crown assured him; this needed his personal attention.

Past the hardware, the small array of firearms, the oil and kerosene, onto the shoes and other clothing where he finally found the yard goods and promptly startled two bonneted women out of the aisle. "Here," he said pointing to the rolls of lace and ribbons stored neatly in a case. "One yard of the blue."

"The blue?" squeaked Stanley. "The blue ribbon, you said?" He paused and gave Crown a look askance, eyebrows raised, one finger pointing.

"That's what I said," Crown told him. Then because the little merchant was having trouble finding the wherewithal to move he added, "It's a special gift, Mr. Evers. I'd like it wrapped…now, if you don't mind."

The meaning, or most of it, suddenly seemed to hit Evers. He nodded quickly and plucked up the spool with a sly spreading smile. "One yard, yessir, I'll measure that right out! Special gift, he says," he mumbled with delight as he worked his way to the front of the store. There'd surely be a watch on for a girl that might be soon sporting a new blue hair ribbon. Well, it wasn't exactly a secret about town – there were plenty of whispers already about Dulcey and the Marshal...

He caught some movement off to his side – furtive movement of a sort that raised his suspicions. Crown casually turned, let his left hand stray along the length of a bolt of lurid green fabric while his right brushed the handle of his .44. Rather than raising his head outright, he only let his gaze swung upward instead. A slight figure straightened up from the gun display. One hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, and he began to walk purposefully away – straight toward Stanley's back entrance. Crown quickly stepped back among the stacks of fabric, looked behind him, spied a short aisle and took it.

He easily got to the back door just as the thief appeared, but didn't have to do any more than block the doorway – the lad was in such a hurry and looking the other way that he plowed right into the lawman. "Going somewhere, Pokey?" Crown drawled, grabbing the dark-haired boy's collar and shrugging him upright.

The kid froze, his look wild. "M – Marshal…"

"That's right. Now, hand that over, won't you?" Crown shoved his fist into the boy's coat pocket, brought up the hand clutching the stolen Colt and worked it out of the white- knuckled grip. "That's the third time I've caught you stealing," he said to the well-known thief-about-town, an unkempt farmer's boy that didn't appear to relish a future of plowing and reaping. "Come on."

The kid began to wiggle hard. "Wait – no…"

"No waiting," Crown agreed and shoved him forward with such a hard grip that the boy's feet barely scraped the floor. "Mr. Evers, my packages?" he inquired, stopping at the counter amid the stares of patrons and the gape of the little store owner. "I'll need to keep this hardware for evidence, all right? Add the rest to my account." Evers only nodded and held the little bundle up, his mouth still hanging open. Crown loosened a hand on Pokey long enough to tuck it into his waistband, then hurried the boy out the front door and into the street. "Put those boots under you and get moving," he growled.

"Where to? Marshal, please…"

"First it was bread for your sick little sister, then a gift for your Pa's birthday," Crown recounted. "What's the gun for – to put a jackrabbit on the table? Nope." Crown kept hauling him along. "A man's got to account for breaking the law. Judge Simmons'll be by in two weeks – you can plead your case to him then."

"Thank you for your purchases, Marshal!" Mr. Evers called from behind, having recovered from his surprise. "Come back – anytime!"

Crown nodded and kept walking straight toward the jail, for a bath – and a birthday.


	6. Chapter 6

VI.

He heard the cry and then the curse even as he slammed his office door behind him – it was that she-devil again. Just what she up to this time?

"What's going on?" he asked Dulcey as she hurried out of the cell area and streamed by in a fly of blonde hair.

"There's a baby being born," Dulcey tossed back over her shoulder, then stopped to give him an exasperated look. "As if you didn't know," she continued coldly.

"I don't wanna go in there," Pokey whined and began to wriggle again. "Sounds like she's dying!"

"Now?" Crown snarled. Now – in his jail? No, couldn't be – he only thought to jail her, give her a little privacy, set up a little lure for her man Larson…He truly didn't think she'd actually give birth in there…

"Doctor Kihlgren told you she was in labor," Dulcey called churlishly as she hurried to the dining room. "These things don't wait for your convenience, Mister Crown!" she added hotly. He also heard her stinging, unspoken thought _It's your fault she's having this baby…_

"Any word on that train?" Crown asked MacGregor, half-dragging Pokey down the short corridor. At another muted cry he and all the prisoners cringed.

"Harvey can't raise anyone," Mac told him. "Do you think there's trouble?"

"After all this rain anything's possible," Crown grunted back, his thoughts more on Dulcey than on a few rail cars riding behind a balky engine. She was upset with him…

"Everything taken care of down at that – that…saloon?" Dulcey inquired tartly as she swept back into the room.

Crown ripped open the package of cigars, scraped a match to life, lit and drew on it. Not much taste but it was good enough for now. "All settled down," he reported back cautiously. Why was she smarting about his trip down to Pony Jane's? If only she realized… Pony Jane's girls were a pretty dalliance but that was it. Any man looking for a wife wasn't going to find one there, and didn't expect to. The competition wasn't all that strong, and it didn't last long.

"Fine," she allowed, handing the things into the sheeted cell, then spared him a quick glare, cheeks all pink and eyes full of fiery blue sparks. He expected an earful to follow and why not? He'd closed the Inn on her, left a half-wild expectant girl in her care while he darted off to tame fistfights and fires and the dust-up at Pony Jane's. All the while it was her birthday and he'd not even had the time to acknowledge it – which he should…

"Been meaning to tell you…" he began.

"Go off and take care of another one of your little disasters, why don't you?" she hissed at him, then disappeared behind the sheet.

He started forward, dismayed. "Dulcey, now wait – I…"

But there was only a long sighing moan from the covered cell. _Too late, Crown, _jeered his conscience. _She's furious… _Stung, he stood there like an idiot while guilt took advantage and set up a little jig of glee inside him. Pummeled thus inside and out he scooped up his other package and made his way upstairs. Once he got to his room he gave the door an appreciable slam, which quivered the water in the tub Francis had filled for him. His bath, his longed-for bath…Cursing, he turned about once, twice, jittery and confused. On the third turnabout he tossed the tasteless cigar aside and banged the rim of the tub with his fist. Then he strode some more, but his steps only established a cadence that allowed him to fit her name into it – _Dulcey-Dulcey…_

He whirled, yanked open his top dresser drawer, shoved aside neatly folded clothing. His fingers found the square box and he withdrew it, small in his hand. He opened it up, stared hard at the item inside, trying to work up a name for what was spilling through his insides. What if she didn't like it? He didn't know much about these things, other than what he thought would look nice on her. And he couldn't make any promises with it. But he wanted her to have something from him besides a jail full of prisoners, a quick thanks for a meal eaten standing up, some hard words about the unforgiving harshness of this land. He wanted her to know that he was something beyond the badge, that he had some kindnesses in him, could find some gentleness for her. And Lord forbid if something should happen, he wanted her to have something to remember him by…he'd never thought of that, having someone keep his memory should he perish under the badge, until he met her…was that wrong?

He touched the dainty thing with a clumsy finger, surprised at how delicate feel of it. She had nothing like it – at least, nothing he'd ever seen her wear. And it was a symbol of what he so admired in her – the grit in her heart, the cheerful youth, her femininity. And what he felt for her, the way she made his heart soften – _melted_… The outlaw Arn Tinker's words came back to him….yes, Dulcey melted him.

He dropped his head to the dresser top, emotion tramping all through him. Dulcey deserved a steady life and a man who could offer her comforts like a nice home and pretty dresses and even children. A Marshal couldn't offer much of that. He didn't even know any lawmen that were married. The badge was just too demanding. There were too many nights away, too many jailbirds with grudges, too many outlaws willing to shoot their way to escape. Not that he'd be a lawman forever, but the chances of his dying for the badge before he willingly took it off were great. And he wasn't going to take it off while there was a job to do out here. Practically speaking he liked his job. The Territory was changing and would continue to change – Congress was wrestling with opening up the Outlet and there'd be a need for some kind of law to manage it all. If not that then he'd go someplace else – he knew enough influential men, senators and bankers and good lawyer or two, even a couple of judges. But that was years away – who would want to wait that long for him?

So if someone came to take up Dulcey's time he wouldn't stand in her way. Of course, it had to be the right kind of man. Bu he'd be able to stand aside and let her go – she deserved much more than this dusty spot of Indian Territory, much more. He'd let her go, be happy for her…

Wouldn't he?

He whirled, jammed the box into his pocket and strode back down the hall, then the stairway, then headed for his office, but changed direction when he heard sounds coming from the kitchen. She was there, gathering things in the emerging afternoon shadows, looking harried and busy and still hurt and angry. Where had the afternoon gone? he wondered, peeking back to the clock out in the dining room.

"Dulcey…"

She barely glanced at him. "What?"

"I've been meaning to tell you…" he began for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day.

"I'm busy," she interrupted crossly. "There's coffee if you want – help yourself to anything else." She kept passing back and forth in front of him, talking fast, almost breathlessly.

Crown reached out and snagged her elbow. "Dulcey…"

Her eyes flashed with clear annoyance. "There are things to do," she objected, eyeing his badge. He caught the meaning – it stood, as always, between them. _Only if you let it,_ protested a little voice inside him.

"Dulcey…" He held fast but she was squirming and avoiding his gaze. So he stepped closer, closed his other hand over her wrist. _Just let this be, just a moment…_ "Dulcey," he tried again.

"What?" she whipped out, her blonde head finally coming up and her frosty blue glare meeting him. He remained quiet – he could be miles of patience when he needed, and she knew it.

Presently she eased a little in his grasp, and her look lost some of its hardness, as he knew it would; Dulcey was just not one to hold onto anger. "I'm sorry it's been such a busy day," he told her as everything stilled about them. Her scent rolled over him, a sweet fragrance that tunneled deep into him, wrapping his heart with something strong and warm. "There's been hardly a minute to tell you." He let go of her elbow to reach into his pocket. "I've got something-"

"Jim!"

They both started at MacGregor's call, but it was Dulcey who looked away and murmured something indelicate. And then she worked free of him,

The Scotsman rocked to a stop in the doorway. "Come quick, man! There's no time to waste!"

"Not now," Crown ordered, reaching for her again.

"Well, come on!" Mac shouted at him. "They've got the train held up! And they're making demands." He pulled a paper from his breast pocket, thrust it at Crown. "From Harvey – all the details as he could get them."

No, he didn't want to go, not now, not when he so close… It was her birthday and he wanted to show her…he should've taken her out of town, he should've…it wasn't the badge, they could come to an understanding without it being in the way. He wanted it to work, he wanted…

"What are your orders?" MacGregor pressed.

"Go…" Dulcey muttered to him.

Why, he moaned inwardly, why now? Dammittall, if this wasn't the last thing, the last damned bad thing that could happen to him on this day. The train, with Senator Preston Plumb of Kansas held hostage. Why hold it up in Cimarron? Why couldn't they have just held it up while it was delayed down the line? There wasn't any Army payroll, nothing out of the ordinary.

He shouldn't go. He should just tell Mac to get started without him. He needed some time – this was too important to him – and especially to Dulcey. He wanted her to know how important it was…

Senator Preston Plumb being held against his will. A member of the federal government, an important and influential statesmen. There was no choice. Crown tore himself away from her, ripping his heart – and Dulcey's – in the process.

"You get those soldiers and tell them they're deputized," he barked to MacGregor, releasing as the space between them instantly cooled. "Arm them and follow me."

"Right!" MacGregor nodded and ran for the cells.

Crown grabbed the kitchen door to keep it from slapping back into him, cursing his big sorry self, wishing he had enough strength to ask her for forgiveness, but too ashamed to even turn around-

Her hand found his arm, made him whirl back. Her touch was soft and small – it was affection and forgiveness and that one thing that they could not utter between them. But it was there just the same. It was there.

"Be careful," she murmured and it sealed his heart up tight.

His fingers stroked across the softness of her cheek. "I'll be back," he promised.

She nodded, found a slight smile, but it seemed brittle to him. "I'll be here," she only said.

Crown turned away with the worst sinking feeling he'd ever felt. What was it about this day that refused him a bath and her a birthday?


	7. Chapter 7

VII.

The badge – his badge…always _that badge_.

Keeping her from him, he from her; never allowing them even a second together, only half-stolen moments of frustration. If not for that badge—

But Dulcey stopped her inner rant. That badge was the very thing that'd brought him into her life. And there were times when she could see beyond it, to that deepest part of Jim, and hold him in her closest respect and affection. So she could not let him down, no matter how much it came between them. It was the greatest part of him, of who he was. If she could not accept it, then she could not accept him. Even if it meant him dashing off to the first signs of trouble, ordering her Inn closed and bringing her waifs to care for. He cared, he did care…

She hurried back to the sheeted cell and slipped through the open door – it'd been too much trouble to lock and unlock, and besides, Rachel Rose was deep into labor now and could not be moved. Dulcey still didn't favor the situation, even if the three soldiers had been released to help with the held-up train. Four men still remained, though they hunched against the ball walls. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

"Here," she said, handing over the fresh towels, noting the deepening shadows slanting through the barred windows at the last cells – the Spring evening would be coming in soon. How had the day slipped away? There would be supper to cook, if she had a moment…

Martha Kihlgren reached out to the take the rest but was suddenly struck from behind; she stumbled and went down in a flail of towels and a spray of water. Rachel Rose loomed over her, holding the dripping ewer, arm raised to strike again.

"Stop!" Dulcey cried out. "Don't hurt her – what are you doing?"

"Leave me be – let me out!" the other girl commanded, swaying, her eyes black with pain and anger.

"Out?" Dulcey repeated with incredulous confusion. "Oh, but you can't…"

"I'm going, you hear me?" Rachel Rose shouted, trembling hard and hiccupping a little. Her tormented look was a fresh glaze of pain pierced by what looked like hopelessness. "I'm not having this baby here – my baby…" She cringed as a contraction hit her, but swung the ewer again. "I am not—my baby," she gasped. "Leave me be!"

Dulcey moved toward her despite the threat, sensing the true need underneath the raging emotion; she needed someone to act as her friend, someone to care.. "Rachel Rose…" she began soothingly, even when the girl made a swipe at her. "Now there is no need for this. It's all right."

"It's not! It's all wrong. And I can't! I can't do it!"

"Of course you can," Dulcey told her quietly.

"I can't – I'm afraid!" Rachel Rose cried back. She sobbed and wobbled a little, the ewer still clutched hard in her fist. "I'm afraid – of everything. I ain't got nothing and this baby – my baby…" Her look tore through Dulcey's heart. "I don't know what to do."

Mrs. Kihlgren had straightened but Dulcey put out a hand to hold her back. "Well, to start with," Dulcey began calmly, though her knees were threatening to betray her weight. But the girl was helpless, truly so. "You're going to have your baby, and Mrs. Kihlgren and I are going to help you." She took the girl's arm, pulled the ewer from her shaking grasp and gave it to Martha. "And the rest will come. We'll help you, all right? Let us help…" She slid her arm around the quaking shoulders, let the other woman lean on her, then held as another birth pain hit and she stiffened, breathing fast.

"Don't leave me," she pleaded through gasps.

"We won't," Dulcey promised.

They got her re-settled and Martha pulled the sheets closed, then sat down and gave out directions. Rachel Rose gulped down her fear and nodded, bore down through the next pain while Dulcey helped hold her.

Again – and again – and—

It seemed to go on and on. The girl soaked herself in sweat, kept at it, refrained from crying out. Now Martha was telling her to _push – push! One more time – push, dear, let's greet this child…_

And then it was done and the girl had fallen back exhausted and Mrs. Kihlgren was busy with her hands and then there was a noise and a sputtering little cry. "You did it, dear," she beamed, holding up a little blanketed bundle. "A fine boy."

"A son," Dulcey exclaimed wondrously. "Oh, Rachel Rose, congratulations!"

The girl was crying afresh and trying to smile as she took her newborn into her arms, all red face, pink gums, slitted eyes and a matted wisp of dark hair. "My baby," she whispered fervently. "My boy – my son…" She looked up to Dulcey and Martha. "You – oh thank you…"

"Nonsense – you did all the work, dear," Martha praised her. "Now, there are other things to do…" She shooed Dulcey out with dirty linens and water and requested fresh.

"Is it all right with her, Miss?" one of the jailed cowboys asked worriedly as she slipped out of the cell. The others were standing at their doors, all wearing the same collective look of concern.

"Yes," Dulcey nodded. "It's a boy…"

"Praise be," said another.

"A boy…" the word went around among them in hushed tones, sharing the news that temporarily erased hardships, poor excuses and bad choices from before them.

"Looks like I'm too late," Dr. Kihlgren announced from the doorway. "How was the birth?"

"All right," Dulcey told him, breaking back into a smile. But then a terrible thought slammed into her chest and splintered the feelings she'd been holding there. And she was terrified to ask but she had to know... "What will happen to the baby?"

"Be sent off to the orphans home," Kihlgren replied in a lowered voice, moustaches twitching into a frown. "Or maybe someone hereabouts would be willing to take him in. But most farmers are stacked up waiting for that Outlet to open and they're barely getting by as it is."

Dulcey looked back at the tiny thing held protectively in Rachel Rose's arms. Orphan's home – dear life, no!

To think she had been so selfish with her own wants. She swallowed the notions with crusted guilt – what celebrations could this girl have, what birthdays could she share with her son? Their future held only bleakness and poverty. This fresh sweet life that had emerged among the despair was just a bare hope. And it would soon be crushed.

"She's asking for you," Mrs. Kihlgren told her.

"About the baby…" Dulcey stammered out to her. That innocent baby…

Martha shook her head. "We'll see if there's someone who can take him. But she's facing a jail sentence, Dulcey. By the time that's over she might not be able to get the boy back. Don't upset her, all right? Just be her friend – I think she needs one right now."

Dulcey somehow swallowed it back and managed a smile at the exhausted girl, but her lips felt stiff. And this girl was perceptive. "Can I get you anything, Rachel Rose?"

The other girl shook her head. "Would you like to hold him?" she then asked shyly.

"Oh," said Dulcey, so wanting to but afraid to be so forward as to ask. This tiniest thing – the tiniest human being… "Oh, I – yes, if – if…"

Rachel Rose held the newborn up. Dulcey gently took him, amazed at how he squirmed so in her hands. The little mouth opened, toothless, his eyes blinked with a bleary gaze and he emitted a tiny squeak. She could not help but marvel at the skin with the very veins running underneath, the defined hairline, the barely visible brows and a wisp of eyelashes. Delicate, yet so perfect. Seeing him, holding him, even the very new scent of him pulled at her. One day she wanted this, a child of her own, born from her very self, a creation that she would have a hand in making…

"Oh," she said again, curling him close – she could feel his every little breath, tiny but sure. "Oh, Rachel Rose, he is beautiful – I never…"

"The doc's wife showed me how to feed him, so he shouldn't cry now. If – if he needs changing…?"

"I'd be happy to help," Dulcey gushed. She sat on the stool with the bundle in her arms, found herself rocking. "How do you feel?"

"Better now. Not sure what'll happen though…"

It came rushing back over them, both powerless to do anything but realize it.

"I always wanted so much," Rachel Rose began. "Never had more than rags and dirt. Too many mouths at the table and never enough for everyone. I ran as soon as I could, but it wasn't much better on my own…Del, he came along and was different. He promised me – the money was for him…" She pointed to the baby. "I don't want him to be hungry and poor. It was wrong, I know, but without any land to farm we had nothing – but each other." She signed heavily. "I don't expect he'll be back… I thought maybe – I thought he loved me…" She looked up to Dulcey, unshed tears reflecting the painful truth. "He just used me, didn't he? Left me to get caught so he could get away."

"I don't know," Dulcey answered in an unsteady whisper. She could not give the girl optimism where none existed, but to just deny her everything... "It certainly won't be good for him if he keeps running. Marshal Crown…" she hesitated, then completed the rest. "He can be very persistent with lawbreakers. It's his duty, his job…" And Jim was an expert tracker, she knew. She'd heard talk of a special commendation waiting for him in Washington. He deserved it, certainly. He worked hard for the badge he wore, gave it pride. Denied himself much because of it. And, she thought a trifle sadly, held off others as well…

"If I go to jail," Rachel Rose began slowly, "what will happen to my baby?"

Fear chilled her inside. "Rachel Rose, you shouldn't worry about…"

"What will happen?" she insisted, then seemed to sense the truth. "They'll take him, won't they? Take him from me…"

"I'm sure it would only be temporary…" Dulcey tried weakly.

"I got nothing, then," Rachel Rose said bleakly. She bit her lip, caught back a raw sob. "Nothing…"

"I can ask the Marshal to talk to the judge," Dulcey offered – something, she had to do something. How could mother and son be forever separated? "Under these special circumstances…"

"No, you can't ask that of him." Rachel Rose wiped at her running nose, swiped at the spilling tears. "You'd ruin it between you and him."

That this girl could think of others when her own future was empty. _I don't deserve this kindness... _

"I can ask and I will," Dulcey told her. "He's fair, he'll listen."

"Ain't worth it," Rachel Rose huskily replied. She shook her head. "I just ain't worth it."


	8. Chapter 8

VIII.

"I've got the Senator!" came the voice again. "He stays with us – or he dies."

Crown didn't like hostage-taking. There was always too much risk, too many details to negotiate, too much time with short-tempers and nervous trigger fingers and desperate needs. And bad outcomes. Preston Plumb of Kansas was a personal friend – how would it do to have him hurt or even killed in Indian Territory under his own jurisdiction?

"They have no horses," MacGregor had pointed out as they'd first found some protection behind a stack of crates close to the depot, the results of a half-unloaded cargo. Indeed, the rest sat waiting in the cars snaking down the track. Once the shooting had started and folks realized what was happening, it'd all been abandoned. "They need that much to escape."

"They should've thought of that beforehand," Crown had returned with peevishness. He wasn't one to cut a deal and allow escape. In this case, doing so would have the federal government, the railroad, and the state of Kansas all looking for his head. That wouldn't exactly bode well for any future plans he might like to pursue with any of those entities, or anyone connected to them.

He'd managed to get the area cleared and set up deputies to keep it that way. The soldiers he'd put on the rooftops, spread out with Winchesters. The rest of the situation was uncertain; no one knew how many were holding Pres, or what they wanted exactly, other than a means to escape – but why take Plumb with them? For money? Well, if it came to a getaway on horseback then those boys on the roof would be in a good position to stop them. If…

Crown wasn't going to let that happen if at all possible. And so a plan had formulated in his mind even as the first evening shadows began to creep across the rutted street, risky but they always were, involving a black powder and the wonder of that little drug he'd seen the doc use just last week on a poisoned family, along with a little deceit on his part. That was the murky part, but he was betting on a few odds in his favor, like the bunch that was holding Plumb weren't seasoned outlaws but desperate men and unsure of themselves. Seasoned outlaws, Crown reasoned, would've just stopped the train somewhere out on the high prairie, dragged Plumb onto a horse and ridden off into the Outlet. These particular men let the train get all the way into town before taking hostages.

So he'd borrowed the very coat and hat off of Charley Ives, his regular fishing partner and now a temporary deputy; shed his gunbelt and vest, and tucked his .44 into his waistband. The jacket was a little short in the arms but it would do; for this ruse he could not be Marshal Crown. He only hoped Pres would not give him away. Then he gave over directions for the powder and the drug, and did not give in when Mac protested. But he did withdraw the box from his pocket and gave it over to his Chief Deputy.

"Hold this for me," he'd instructed. At the curious look in return he'd added, "It's for Dulcey." _And if I don't make it back out…_

Charged with a new and more personal responsibility MacGregor had silently nodded with understanding and buttoned it into his shirt pocket. "I'll keep it safe for you."

So now he was crouched in a car empty of goods save for a gathering of disturbed dust motes drifting through air redolent with the odors of its previous contents, among them apples, onions and pine tar. Unsettled quiet spread over him. Adjusted the battered hat and wiped some sweat forming on his brow. A bath, he thought distantly, flexing his tender ankle.

The robbers were forward of him, two cars ahead and directly behind the engine; he could hear muted voices coming from that direction. Crown passed into the first car without issue. Surprise was the element to use here and even that was not guaranteed. But as long as they weren't gun heads then this might work. _Might_ was the important word here… He took a slight breath to ready himself for the part, and reached for the door.

He stumbled into the car, rocked to a stop at the guns immediately cocked and trained on him, docilely raised his arms, sweating with relief that there'd been no shots – yet. "Whoa, fellers," he drawled with fake nervousness, schooling his face into surprise. "Don't – don't…"

"Who are you?"

The startled question came from a roughly dressed man wearing boots with laces, his reddish hair curling out from beneath a stained hat. Three others were all similarly dressed; a quartet of shaky and nervous abductors, hayseeders and not gunmen. There was Pres Plumb trying not to stare at him, and another well-dressed man beside him. Crown did not recognize the abductors – they'd either come in on the train or had been camped outside town. He gave an extra silent thanks to Del Larson for taking him out of town for the better half of a week and keeping his face out of the area.

"I fell asleep back there." Crown jerked a thumb behind him, careful with his arms to ensure the coat would not reveal his .44. He half-turned. "I'll go – don't wanna get in your way…"

"No! You sit down – right there!" shouted the red-headed man. A second man stepped forward, rifle up.

Plumb was appraising him with quiet eyes. He appeared unruffled by the to-do, well-dressed but wrinkled from travel, his dark hair still smooth on his head, barely a trace of sweat on his cheek. Crown held back the grin at the unobtrusive going-over – there was little that could upset Pres. Even now there was faint amusement glinting in the other man's eyes, at least until the gun barrel came back into his neck. Then he gave Crown a silent _do something_ command.

"Boys, I ain't trying to interrupt," Crown pleaded. "Lemme go – I won't say nothin'." But he let himself get shoved into the nearest seat, hands still raised.

"You can't hold us," barked the smaller, well-dressed man. He turned to Plumb. "Where's the Marshal in this town? You said he was your friend…"

"I imagine he's rightly involved," Plumb returned, flicking a glance in Crown's direction. "He knows his business."

"If he doesn't then he should call in the Army," the other man returned, just short of sneering. "They're the greater force in this Territory."

"I expect he knows what to do," Plumb mildly replied.

"This is the Deputy Marshal of Cimarron," came MacGregor's call from outside, which quickly got the others scrambling for the windows. "Throw out your guns and come out. You're surrounded."

"We ain't coming!" the red-haired man called back.

"Unless you've already killed someone," Mac told him, "it's not murder yet."

"We only want what we deserve," the man answered.

"And what would that be, pray tell?"

"We want land."

Crown heard the derision in his Chief Deputy's voice. "You and the rest of the clans congregated hereabouts. It's all taken up and the Outlet is closed. Now, I'll say it again – throw out those guns and let the Senator go. He canna help you, man."

A desperate, worthless kidnapping, Crown thought. Well, this was going to take some time, what with them all so headstrong. But he couldn't let it go too long, not with the sun lowering already. Darkness would not help the situation. He remained silent, subtly scrutinizing each man, picking up as many the clues and tiny details as he could find to use in his plan.. Underfed all of them, like most, hoping for something that precious few had managed down in the central area – land. The self-proclaimed, redheaded leader was rangy, perhaps about thirty years old. His prickly temper made him the bully of the others, and probably was what got the other three into supporting him in his rail against the government. The man directly behind him was younger, darker-haired, but similar in build and features – likely related. He was the most nervous of the bunch, and clearly looked to his older relation for directions, would likely stand up for him in any way.

The third man was older than Crown and edging into middle age. He looked run down; muscled enough, but there was a reluctant slump to his shoulders and a air of dejection in his muddy eyes. He didn't much seem to care how this came out in the end – that, thought Crown, could be dangerous. A man like that wouldn't be too bothered about where he might send a slug. That left the last man, on the young side but holding himself with a jutting jaw and a comfortable grip on his battered Winchester. Another dangerous one…

"What are we gonna do, Reese?" asked the youngest one to the leader.

"Let 'em go," the older man suggested in a weary tone.

"We ain't letting them go," Reese replied angrily.

"So what do we do, wait some more?" the older man hurled back. "It's getting dark, Reese. That broken rail took too long to fix. We should just-"

"It will still work!" Reese insisted. He shook Plumb. "We've got him. They have to give us what we want."

Plumb raised a sardonic eyebrow at Crown as if to say, _well, just what are you going to do?_ Crown gave no indication. Two pistols and two long guns, four in all. He didn't see any other weapons but there might be a knife or two on them somewhere. Four guns against one – well, he'd worked those odds before. And he had a couple of unexpected reinforcements coming in…

He reached into the too-short coat toward his vest for a cigar. "Keep them hands where I can see 'em!" Reese snarled and the guns were obediently leveled onto his chest.

"I just want a smoke," Crown declared, producing the cigar. "You boys are making me nervous pointing them guns about – that all right?" He made a bit of a show of fumbling over the match then got it all lit and puffed, quickly. It was so tasteless – somewhere his own cigars were waiting for him out there in a box half-unloaded.

Back at the Inn Dulcey was waiting for him…

"You boys hungry?" he asked. "Maybe them fellers out there would spare you a bite or two. They won't act too fast otherwise, what with you holding there here important man." This time he let his gaze run over Plumb. "Appears to be important, anyway," he added.

"How would you know what they'll do?" Reese asked quickly, suspicion rising in his fresh stare.

Too fast, Crown realized, as Plumb started but checked it into a stumble. Crown shrugged, selecting his words carefully. "I've been on the bad end of a shootout a time ore two," he allowed. "They ain't gonna rush you and hurt the wrong man. At least not in daylight. Might try a sneak attack after dark, though. Been in a few Indian fights where they did that. 'Til then you likely got time to decide what-all you want."

"Have I seen you before?" Reese now asked, whereupon the others shifted nervously.

Crown blew smoke. "Not lessen you saw me sleeping back there – came up from Texas."

"Where you headed?"

"Away from Texas, mostly," Crown drawled back.

"You want land?"

Nope," he shook his head. "Working the land sounds a mite too hard for me."

"Just what is it you do?" asked the older man.

Crown tapped ash, stuck the cigar back between his lips and eased a foot up against the seat in front of him. The .44 nestled in close to his side; they hadn't searched him. "Oh…" he shrugged, "whatever it is that pays right."

"Maybe we could pay you…" the fourth man finally spoke.

Crown purposefully let his gaze linger on him. "For what?"

"Helping us," announced Reese.

"Reese, no," the boy hissed.

"You got money?" Crown asked Reese.

"Maybe," Reese answered. "What do they call you?"

"Name's Henry Allen Foster," he rolled out with no intention of tarnishing his father's given name or his mother's maiden name. "Hank, to my friends." He cast a look over them. "And I'd sure as like to be your friend right about now."

"Coward," Plumb's friend angrily called.

"Be quiet, William," Pres admonished.

"Preston, have you never seen the likes…"

"Leave him be," Plumb remonstrated. "This is hard country – makes for hard decisions."

Reese nodded at him. "Yes, it does." To Crown, "Tell 'em out there what we want."

Crown nodded, got up and moved to the nearest window. "There here fellers want some grub," he called out to Mac, then looked back and gave a little wink. "And a little something to steady the nerves."

"Anything else?" Mac asked him.

"Anything else?" Crown asked them.

"Horses," said the fourth man.

"What for?" asked the boy.

"We need to get away and we need to take him." Reese poked Plumb with the gun barrel, and the taller man shifted uncomfortably.

"What do you think I can possibly do for you?" Plumb asked quietly.

"You can get us some land."

"Horses," Crown called out to Mac before a further argument got started. "Half dozen good ones – and three days' provisions."

"Thanks, friend," Plumb murmured, and none too kindly.

If it all worked then Pres might indeed be thankful. At the least he'd set up the plan as he'd

wanted – his deputies knew what to do next. Crown flicked ash and loosely dropped back into a seat – and waited.


	9. Chapter 9

IX.

She'd just sent Francis off with a tray of food that Jim had called for, part of some crazy-sounding scheme involving that horrible purgative Doctor Kihlgren had used last week on that poisoned family, and some black explosive powder. Both sounded like dangerous ingredients to the body, but Jim wasn't one for taking over-delicate care of himself. Dulcey began to worry. He'd certainly deserve that bath when he returned _when and not if, it had to be when…_and she'd leave him to it, poor thing. He'd first returned from the Outlet tired, sore and bleeding, and he'd made it all the worse by jumping in to stop a fight, running through a burning building to save a child, capturing two more lawbreakers at Pony Jane's. Each time he'd been a little dirtier and wearier, more bruised, limping harder. She'd see him to his bath, let go of the day and worry about the rest in the morning. Just let this day end without any further disasters – for both their sakes.

"I'm sorry it's taken so long," Dulcey called in apology to Rachel Rose, moving down the short corridor to the cells with the food tray balanced easily in her hands. At least with the dining room unexpectedly closed she had plenty to serve the prisoners, of which there were plenty, too, despite Jim taking the three soldiers with him to assist with the train hold up. Jim…was he all right? There'd been no word. Dulcey re-focused her attention to keep her worry at bay. "I've been so busy – are you…?"

Surprise swallowed up her voice. A man stood before in the open door of Rachel Rose's cell, gaunt and hard-eyed, an unkempt dark beard covering his jaw – a Colt was coming up to point right at her. Rachel Rose held tightly onto his other hand.

Del Larson – it had to be.

"Missy," he growled in a surprisingly deep voice, "just step out of the way."

Almost as one the other prisoners shifted, climbing up off bunks, taking a step closer to their own cell doors, sensing the lure of escape.

Jim had told her not to say anything, just do what was asked. _But always fight for your life if they take a hand to you,_ he'd advised. The broom was in the kitchen, but would be useless against his gun. There was a gun in the kitchen, too, but it was too far away, and she didn't know how to use it properly.

"I – I…" she stuttered. Oh, why wasn't Jim here? He'd wanted to catch Larson in just this way. Dulcey scrutinized the girl, saw the spark of life in the dark eyes, the expression of hope across her pale face. Hope, maybe – but for how long?

This day, this never-ending day! She should just back out and let him take Rachel Rose and go, and maybe then everything would settle back to normal; the Inn and bar would be back up and running, Jim would be stomping back and forth, slamming doors, calling for this and that, thanking her for breakfast, lunch and supper and riding off to Heaven-knew-where. Francis would be taking photographs and writing stories, MacGregor would be doing this and that. Her days would be filled with serving and cleaning and worrying… her birthday would be over.

But there was this girl – and her baby…

Dulcey pivoted slightly, seeking appeal in Rachel Rose's gaze. "Rachel Rose, you can't go," she pleaded. "Please, I know it will be hard but don't throw it away…your baby…"

"Baby?" Larson straightened and pulled back. His mouth went agape. "You – you…?"

Rachel Rose smiled uncertainly and pointed to the swaddled infant at the end of the cot. His gaze followed, squinted. "A boy - are you proud, Del?"

His stare swung back to her, jaw working. "You said you weren't ready – it wasn't your time."

"The Marshal made me ride back – it was a long ride, Del. I couldn't help it – I couldn't stop it."

"Rachel Rose, we can't drag a child along," Larson told her. "We got to travel fast."

"Del, I can't leave him," she admonished, taking a step back. "Strangers'll take him – I can't… We got the money – we can buy a train ticket – we can buy things…"

He grabbed her arm. "We need to leave the Territory, now and fast," he said urgently.

"No…" Dulcey couldn't help but cry, then went silent as the gun was trained back on her.. But escaping would be worse than staying, so much worse. Rachel Rose had to know it. _Don't go with him, Rachel Rose…_she silently implored.

The girl bit her lip, looked back at the sleeping bundle. "Del, my baby – our baby…"

"I'll come back for you – later…" He took two steps, forcing Dulcey to back up and bump into an approaching Mrs. Kihlgren.

"You lied!" Rachel Rose cried to him, hand reaching out to him but missing. "You promised but you was only lying to me – me!"

"No, Rachel Rose, I swear." Larson turned and stopped, wavering. "It's – it's just…"

"Things've changed, Del. We got to do what's best." Rachel Rose hesitated, and caught Dulcey's stare.

_Don't go, Rachel Rose…_

"Maybe if you give most of the money back…" the girl timidly suggested.

"No!" Larson lurched forward and clutched her. "That money is our future!" he exclaimed angrily, shaking her. Disturbed by the noise, the baby gave a mew of protest, then began to cry.

Rachel Rose pulled out of his grasp and sat down, took up the baby into her arms. "No, Del," she said softly, rocking the child. "This baby – our baby – is our future. We got to take care of him, give him a good home. Give him the right path."

"Without money we got nothing!" he snarled back. "And we can't get by on nothing."

Dismay darkened her gaze as it went again to Dulcey, seemingly seeking advice. Silently Dulcey implored her, watched and waited while the girl bit her lip and debated. Then her lips went into a firm line. "Then best you go, Del," she announced in a solid tone, bringing the baby protectively to her chest. "Take that money and run before the Marshal catches up. I ain't going."

"Rachel Rose!" he hissed. "I come for you. You got to go with me."

She blinked through the tears filling her eyes. "I – I can't," she stammered. "This here's my son and I have to take care of him. He's your son, too. But if you won't help then I'll do it alone, by myself. You're too bony-headed to see what is right. But I won't tell him you're bad. I love you, Del. And I'll tell him how much I love you, and that you just couldn't stay. I'll tell him the truth when he's old enough, but I won't say anything wrong against you."

"Rachel Rose…"

"I got to stay, Del. For him." She attempted a smile. "I – I thought to name him Tal," she said shyly. "Talbot Larson. So he knows both his ma's and his pa's side. What d'you think? Is that all right? And if I'm not jailed for too long then he'll still be small and he won't remember that I left. I'll take on work – wait for you. I can do that, Del. I'll wait for you." She looked down at the quieting infant, and put her lips to the tiny brow. "But I can't leave him now – I just can't…"

Larson made a noise, his gaze swinging between Rachel Rose and the two women blocking his escape. It was his decision now, Dulcey knew. Rachel Rose was willing to face whatever hardship came to her – that unselfishness sense of hers had arisen, shaming and confusing him.

"Perhaps," began Dulcey softly, her tongue dry in her mouth but needing to speak to show her support for the brave girl inside the cell, "it would be best if you gave yourself up, Mister Larson. For Rachel Rose…and for your son."

He shifted, but the gun was still clutched tight in his hand. His eyes went back over Rachel Rose – he took a step away…

"If you did," continued Dulcey, refusing back up, Martha Kihlgren's breaths coming fast onto her shoulder, "I'm sure Marshal Crown would see that the judge would be told."

"Crown," growled Larson, straightening. "He wants my neck stretched."

"No, Del,no," Rachel Rose admonished from the shadows that had filled the cell. "No, not if you still have the money…Please," she whispered. "Please don't leave me, Del. I know you're afraid. I'm afraid, too. We got nothing now and little to go on, but we'll have even less if we don't stay together. We need to do what's best – for Tal. We brought him into this world – how can we just leave him now? Does he mean nothing to you? Do I mean nothing to you?"

"Rachel Rose…"

"Please, Del. Take a look at him, just take a look…" She got up, came to the cell door, held the baby up.

He left off staring at Dulcey and eyed the infant, clearly torn. Then his hand came up – with a rough-worn finger he touched the tiny cheek, quickly pulled back at the squeak of response. "Aw, hell," he said brokenly, turning away. "Hell and damn, Rachel Rose, I got nothing…"

"You got feelings, Del," she told him through streaming tears. "And you got your name to give him. That's enough for now. Please…"

_Please, _Dulcey echoed silently, watching, waiting – hoping…

Larson slowly lowered the gun, then sank against the cell and nodded mutely.

"Here, why don't you…" Dulcey moved to set down the tray she'd clutched so hard her very fingers now ached, her steps jerky because her knees were shaking so hard. She took up the cell keys. "Why don't you step in…? Rachel Rose, we do have a preacher in town – perhaps his services would be of use to you both – for your son's sake…?"

"I'd like that," the girl admitted with a grateful gaze as Larson tottered into the cell. She touched his sleeve. "Del…?"

He nodded mutely and held the gun out to Dulcey, handle first. Quickly she handed it to an open-mouthed Mrs. Kihlgren; Martha took it rather unsteadily. "You'll need to empty your pockets," Dulcey told him. "And take off your boots…the money?"

He began to comply, dropping things onto the cot. "On my horse – tied in the back," he said, jutting his chin toward the window.

Dulcey picked up the tray and placed it on the floor, took up the meager items he'd taken from his pockets – he pulled off his tattered boots and pushed them out into the hallway.

"Thank you," she nodded, pulling the door shut and locking it. "You look hungry – why don't you eat something…?"

She got as far as Jim's office before the quaking in her knees rattled down her legs and they gave way. She sank against the desk, shaking and sweating, barely able to breathe.

"Oh, my!" Mrs. Kihlgren exclaimed, taking her arm in support. "That was terribly risky, Dulcey dear. It was a very brave thing to do."

It was the only thing to do, Dulcey thought but everything inside her was trembling so badly that she couldn't manage a reply. _Please, Jim,_ she pleaded to herself. _Please come back soon…_


	10. Chapter 10

X.

The situation outside the rail car hadn't changed, but for the quickly lengthening shadows filling the street. The Army privates were still on the roofs, the deputies were still at the ready. At Crown's call, Francis approached, food and whiskey bottles loaded onto a tray.

"Just like you ordered," he said.

"Thank you, boy," Crown nodded back as the understanding passed between the two. A big bellyache would be good to start with. He took the tray and passed it back behind him. "Better get back…" he held up both hands and gestured once – ten minutes. That should be enough time for that emetic to work.

"You want the horses brought up?" Francis asked, backing away.

"Yeah, now." That'd be the way to light that powder. When that bang came there'd be a bit of chaos, but Crown figured Plumb might still have a little frontier fight left in him, and the other Congressman would be willing to defend himself.

Inside they were grabbing at the food, eating with one hand while standing up. A half-starved bunch – they wouldn't even taste the purgative until it was too late…

"Here," Reese shoved a sandwich toward Plumb; the Senator's gaze went to Crown, who gave a tiny shake of his head.

"No, thanks," Plumb returned politely.

The younger one stepped up to Crown – they were half-generous at least, despite their poor reasoning. Crown accepted a bottle, took a generous swig then choked it half-back, wondering too late if they'd laced the whiskey as well. He seriously hoped not – oh, he hoped not…

Nothing happened to him but the emetic worked fast on the rest of them. First one then the other started to feet its effects, clutched at their guts – Crown hope the doc hadn't been too liberal. But it was definitely working. He said nothing as they began to retch and stagger, waiting and waiting for the ten minutes to fully pass. Plumb was struggling to stay upright under Reese's spasmodic grip. Still Crown waited.

Charley was leading the horses up to the car, three in each hand. He dropped the reins; Crown saw his hand dip to his vest pocket, detected a flare of flame as the match was lit. Off to his side Reese had tossed his food aside and was lurching up, Plumb hard in his grasp. Crown leapt up, dove toward the two-

_BOOM!_

The explosion rocked the car. Windows shattered, and spumes of smoky dirt blew inside, choking them. Crown's long each tore Plumb from Reese's grasp. A swift uppercut to the jaw lifted Reese off his feet; he landed in a crumpled heap at the Congressman's feet. One down, three to go.

They got off some shots that rang deafeningly close about the enclosed space. Through the drifting smoke Crown saw the fourth man clawing for the car door and went to stop him. But the middle-aged one was aiming his Colt - Crown's .44 got to him first and he fell back with a yelp. Reese's relative dropped his Winchester and sank to his knees pleading, "Don't shoot – don't…don't…"

"Anyone hurt?" Crown called over to his friend as he retrieved the fallen weapons.

Preston Plumb coughed and waved away smoke, took the Congressman's elbow and straightened. "Jim, Crown, what in hell…?" he exploded. "You have the damndest, cockeyed schemes of any law man I know. No, the only law man I know – no one else can compare." He tugged his clothes back into place, his glare hard on Crown but no real anger in it – he and Crown had been friends too long. "Why you haven't been killed before this…"

"Good to see you, too, Pres." Crown clapped him on the back, turned as his deputies got inside. "One got out," he reported.

"Aye," nodded Mac, as Francis reached for the fallen Reese. "We were fortunate that our jailed privates are sharpshooters – the poor devil ate some dirt but laid down without a cry. Fine going, Jim."

Crown cocked a brow at Plumb. "You see? He thinks my ideas work just fine."

"He hasn't known you that long, then," Plumb retorted, but there was a smile on his lips and a bubble of mirth in his gaze. He turned to his equally wrinkled traveling companion. "William, may I introduce Marshal Jim Crown? Jim, this is Congressman Springer."

Springer, Payne's ally. The Congressmen sized up Crown with screwed up eyes and a frowning mouth while Crown silently handed the battered hat and coat back over to Charley Ives, then got his gunbelt back on. Re-dressed and more comfortable, he rolled his shoulders to ease a few knotted muscles and shook out his throbbing ankle. Nothing that a good long soak in a tub wouldn't sure. If he could ever get to it.

It was, after all, Dulcey's birthday…

Springer finally extended his hand. "I hear you cover the entire Cherokee Outlet."

"That's my job, sir," Crown nodded. He jerked a thumb behind him. "And the unexpected troubles that go with it."

"We're looking to remedy those issues so men like this don't resort to desperate measures," Springer dryly returned as they moved outside.

"I'm all for that," Crown declared, breathing the fresh, cooling air. "Happy to discuss it with you…" He glanced up at the darkening sky as they began to walk up from the now busy depot. "Maybe it'd be better in daylight, after a good meal and some sleep. I hear the train was some delayed down the line earlier." He hesitated, then decided against inviting them to the Wayfarer's what with all the rest of the trouble he'd brought to Dulcey there today, especially that baby about to be born. And it was Dulcey's birthday…

"Got a fine hotel in town," he suggested, pointing to the big yellow building. Farther down the Inn was dark, the front lamps unlit and the front doors closed. "Just tell the desk clerk you're my guests."

"Sounds fine, just fine," Plumb nodded. "Jim, I know you're busy but perhaps I can walk with you for a bit, stretch my legs. We've been a while on that train."

Springer took up the cue and took himself into the hotel with little more to say. Plumb fell easily into step beside Crown, his longer legs striding slightly ahead. Crown found himself limping just a little harder than before but didn't object – he knew Pres had a few things to say, and he would not deny a good friend his due.

"How do you like it here?" Pumb asked as they worked their way down the boardwalk. "Better than Abilene?"

"Different than Abilene," Crown answered. "Lot more territory to cover, for one thing."

"Not too much for you?"

Crown grinned. "Would you have nominated me if you thought I couldn't handle it?"

Plumb chuckled. "No. As a matter of fact, I've read all your reports and you're handling just fine."

Crown nodded. "That's what I like to hear."

"But I worry for you, Jim."

"Why is that?" Crown swiped a little at his deplorable person, but gave up. His shirtfront was hopelessly dirty, his pants were snagged, and his boots were deeply scuffed. And he was sure he smelled as bad as he looked. Though he wasn't sure he would make a better impression all suited up and sitting a clean office. A U. S. Marshal should at least look the part.

"You're good, too good," Plumb told him. "I think you're being wasted out here. Ever thought of studying the law?"

"Me?" Crown gave him a skeptical squint. "Pres, I think I'm a little too old for that."

"Not necessarily. You'd be a quick study – you know most of it already. Judge Parker would take you on, Judge Quayle would too. You've got friends in Washington, as if I have to remind you…"

"Pres, it's a bunch of interesting thoughts." Had he just been considering them earlier today? Had it even been today? His mind was shutting down, taking his body with it – he was flat-out exhausted.

"This Territory is changing," Plumb commented, gazing about the town, now amazingly quiet and feeling a bit too eerily tame.

"I know it," Crown agreed. "Won't be same if you get the Outlet open."

"Despite what Springer thinks, it won't be anytime soon. But think on things, would you?"

"You know I will," Crown nodded.

"Come to Washington when you can – we can discuss it there. I can introduce you to some influential men."

Crown's lips twisted sardonically. "You sure Washington can handle the likes of me for an extended stay?"

Preston laughed heartily. "You'd turn it upside down, which is exactly what it needs. In the fall, yes? There's already a commendation waiting for you to pick up – the President insists on handing it over personally."

"I'll do my best."

Plumb glanced sidelong at him. "Might allow you to get a wife while you're there."

"Might," Crown shrugged.

"Lots of fine ladies in Washington."

"I believe you."

"You're not interested," Plumb guessed. "In the ladies, I mean."

"Pres, I'll meet anyone you want me to." And he would – he knew the importance of pressing palms, striking up conversations, nodding and greeting and discussing. But right now Washington was far away and there were other things still clamoring for his attention. He wanted that bath, but moreover, he wanted to impress a certain lady more. It was still her birthday.

"I won't get any more out of you tonight, I know," Plumb smiled knowingly, strolling to a halt at Crown's office door. "So, good-night, Jim." He gave his friend a teasing smile. "I take it you can find time for William and I tomorrow morning, perhaps hold off any 'special disasters' until we're through?"

Crown grunted, glad to give his ankle a bit of a rest. "I'll do my best."

Plumb gave him a hearty slap on the back, wheeled and strolled back toward the hotel.

Crown let the soldiers go – he needed the cell room. They nodded as one and hurried off; they'd likely be found by the night patrol, and then Major Covington of Fort Supply could deal with the rest.

"Here…" MacGregor stepped up beside him and handed over the box he'd been holding, a delighted twinkle in his eye. "You'll be wanting to impart this to her, I'll wager."

Crown nodded his thanks and shoved it back into his own pocket. Yes, and soon, before anything else could happen. He closed the door of the last cell. Then he cast a glance to the sheet draped one – it was too quiet in there. But there was no possibility that the girl had been moved, even if she did have the baby. Dulcey would not disobey him, of that he was certain. He grabbed a fistful of material and thrust it aside.

She was there asleep, her face clean and her hair brushed. And Lord Almighty, there was Del Larson squeezed in beside her, lightly snoring, and… Crown squinted but his tired eyes did not deceive him – she was definitely thinner. She'd had the child.

He snapped his hanging jaw shut, turned, got it working again. "What is he doing in there?" he asked, but MacGregor was gone and Mrs. Kihlgren was approaching.

"He gave himself up," Martha told him. "Miss Talbot and Dulcey persuaded him-"

"Dulcey?"

She nodded. "You know how she is – and with the baby…Mister Larson saw reason. He's emptied his pockets and surrendered his gun, the money, too – it's all on your desk." She gestured toward the cell. "Under the circumstances we thought it best if he stayed with her – the preacher will be by in the morning to see them properly wed."

Dulcey had talked him into giving up…Crown turned back to the cell. "Larson," he called over. "Hand over your boots."

"I already done that," the robber sleepily groused.

Martha nodded again. "Dulcey made him." She grinned. "You should make her a deputy."

"I guess so," Crown declared, still not quite believing his eyes.

"She's in the kitchen, if you want to talk to her. She's changing the baby."

Yes, he surely wanted to do that. Crown got moving on his bad ankle again. They needed another discussion about her taking risks like this. Dulcey, who cowered every time he'd shown her how to hold a gun, pleading with him not to make her fire it. And yet facing down Larson and somehow convincing him into giving up. She should've known better. She was just too trusting. She had too much optimism and enthusiasm…hope. Dulcey invested in hope and good feelings, unaware of just how harsh this world was, how it could shred a man's dreams, put him in the ground way before his time. He'd told her over and over to follow his orders, to keep herself safe when he wasn't here. He knew she listened, but why couldn't she obey? Then guilt rammed him. He should've left a guard behind; he'd wanted to capture Larson in just this way, after all. God in Heaven, if Larson had indeed turned a gun on her... the thought ran a hard shiver down his backbone, sliced close to his heart. Such a vexing girl! She could so anger him, like now, yet gladden him with her bright smile of greeting. He admired her for her tenacity and courage, yet was relieved every time he returned from the Outlet to find the Inn still standing and she at the door waiting for him. It was then that the deeper feeling stole over him and he wanted to reach past his job and his badge and hold her hand, touch her cheek, be a man and not a U. S. Marshal…

Humming – he heard humming. He paused before the kitchen door to listen – yes, it was coming from in there. Curious, he pushed through the door – and stopped.

Dulcey looked up at him from her seat at the table, her blue-eyed gaze glittering in the soft warmth of the single lamp, her little tune slowing to silence. The depth of her stare struck him in the chest, hooked him hard. It was so – so…

A squeak and a mew came from within the blanketed bundle in her arms. A tiny fist arose, waving stiffly. "Hush," she soothed, tucking it back out of sight and rocking a little. "There there…" Her gaze came back up, the tears shimmering in her eyes. "There must be something, Jim," she began, her voice husky with distress. "He can't go to an orphan's home. He can't. Isn't there something you can do? I'm sorry," she sniffed a little. "I know I shouldn't ask…"

Her aura astounded him, so wholly womanly that it made him ache just to look at her. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight. She'd have babies of her own one day – he'd never considered that fact until now, but she was of an age. Dulcey, a woman grown. Dulcey, sitting there with her arms full of new life, the pureness of love radiating out of her, that deep sense of protection for the helpless and defenseless welling up and over, gentling her even more she already was. Dulcey, selfless, compassionate…loving. How could he deny her?

"I'll talk to the judge," he heard himself saying, the overwhelming vision of loveliness issuing forth from her swallowing up every other thought on his mind. _Melted, _came from somewhere inside him. _You melt me…_

Grateful relief filled her face. "Thank you…" she whispered.

He managed a nod, could not stop staring. "I – Dulcey…"

Martha Kihlgren stepped in behind him. "Let me take him back to Miss Talbot now, Dulcey." To Crown she added, "Mr. MacGregor will guard the door."

He numbly moved aside, watching as she plucked the child out of Dulcey's arms and then swept back out. Dulcey sat unmoving for a long moment, breathing quietly – he could detect the rise and fall of her chest, sensed she strange sort of loss she had to be feeling. As if reading his mind, she looked down at her now empty hands. The glow surrounding her slowly ebbed but a deeper longing seemed to come up and settled heavily about her.

"I can get Francis to close up if you're done…" he offered stupidly.

"No." She shook her head and rose, a single, graceful movement. Her glance flickered to the door, came back. "I've still some things to do. It's been so busy I've not had the time…"

Yes, and he'd been the prime cause of that, shoving everything into the Wayfarer's and right onto her. He deserved whatever she might serve him with now. He'd accept the anger and the upset, even this soft sadness though it was ripping him up. _Been meaning to tell you_ came onto his lips but he pressed it back – it seemed out of place now, and much too late.

"You can open the dining room in the morning," he said instead.

"All right – thank you." She gave him an uncertain smile.

He nodded, his mouth all sandy dry. "Good night then," he rasped.

"Good night."

He awkwardly backed out, half-stumbled toward the stairs. His hands were clammy, his heart was bumping inside him, kicking at his sagging lungs. _Dulcey, Dulcey, what do you do to me?_ He wiped his palms on his filthy pants, felt the box in his pocket. Yes, he wanted a bath, and a shave, and even a meal and his bed. He wanted-

He wanted to show her how her how he felt.

There was still time. "Francis," he beckoned his approaching deputy. "I'm going to need your

help…"


	11. Chapter 11

XI.

"Hey, Dulcey-girl," Francis said, poking his head around the kitchen door. "I'm going to lock up now. You about done?"

"Yes," Dulcey sighed heavily.

Her life in Providence had been so small, she realized. One tiny room of her own, a daily toil of work on that third floor, Sunday mornings for church, an occasional outing to a store or a walk on the beach. She'd lived there but she had only existed – she hadn't really experienced it. Here it was so different. In eight months she'd become a cook and a baker, a laundress, an accountant, a buyer and yes, a maid, too. All day she'd bandaged the injured, fed the hungry, comforted the downtrodden. Tonight she'd even been a jailer. And then she'd held the tiniest wonder of all God's creation in her arms, all pink and soft and helpless, but so completely alive.

There'd never been quite a day – or a birthday – like it. Now it was back to work. The dining room would be open in the morning. There'd be orders to take, cooking to do, dishes to wash, all part of a now familiar routine. But right now all she wanted was a few moments to herself, a bit of quiet to enjoy without having to walk or stoop or clean.

"Here." Francis caught her arm and edged her back into a chair. "Not yet."

"Not yet?" she protested. "You just asked me to leave."

"Well, not yet," he insisted. "I've got something for you. I would've had it sooner but it got stuck on that train. Close your eyes and hold out your hands," he directed. "C'mon, do it."

"Francis…" It was late and she just wanted this day over with. But how could she refuse him? He was always so kind to her and to bruise the look of delight in his eyes would harm her as much as it would devastate him. She knew he liked her, maybe more than just liked.

So she settled back and closed her eyes and held up her palms. "Will this do?"

Something – paper – was placed in her hands. "Okay, open your eyes…" He was beaming at her. "Happy Birthday, Dulcey-girl."

A newspaper, no a magazine – Dulcey turned it around to read the title and her heart leapt a little. Kessler's Ladies Monthly – her favorite! Just where had he found an issue?

"Francis, oh, thank you!" she gushed. "I haven't seen one in months and months. Oh, I'd save to buy one back in Providence and read it over and over. How did you…?"

He was rocking on his heels and his smile could not get any bigger. "Not just one – a whole year's worth," he told her with pride. "I bought you a subscription. They promised to put it on the mail pouch from the St. Louis train every month. Which they did – only the train was delayed…well, you know."

"Oh, Francis." She stood to hug him. "Thank you so much. It's a fantastic surprise and a wonderful gift. I'll treasure every issue." What an absolutely delightful way to end the day. It made all the calamities of the previous hours fade. Such thoughtful things, chosen just for her – she'd cherish them. These were truly her friends.

Francis peered out into the dining room, nodded as if satisfied with something, then held the door for her. "Sorry your day didn't turn out the way you wanted," he offered sympathetically, falling into step beside her.

"It's all right," she allowed, and found a smile, kept moving. "There'll be others." A birthday was just a day after all. The wonder of a new child and a reconciled couple were experiences that would long last in her memory. And now this day was truly done. She'd read for a bit, leave the balcony door open for a little air. The night looked pretty enough from what she'd seen through the kitchen window. Was it really this afternoon when Jim had returned and had found her washing in her tub…?

Her glance fell on something and she paused, frowning at the out-of-place arrangement on the far table, the one closet to the stairway. There was a white tablecloth instead of the workaday red, a large collection of fresh flowers cobbled together not in a vase but a series of drinking glasses – and the candles. Two of them, white tapers melting with glistening gracefulness down the sides of the deep brown bottles to which they had been affixed. And in the center of all that lay a square box neatly wrapped in brown paper and twine to which a blue ribbon had been added. Dulcey stared. Long ago she'd envisioned candles in bottles like these, a girl's simple dream that had no place out here. She'd never told anyone – wait…

"Francis…?" she began, but he had disappeared; there was a slight _snick_ as the door to Jim's office quietly closed.

"You didn't think I'd forget, did you?"

She swung back around to the sound of the voice – Jim…

He stood on the stair landing, smiling that rare full smile that reached his eyes. His eyes, full of hazel glitter and holding steadily onto her, absorbing her. Jim…

He was freshly washed and shaven. His glossy black hair was combed and still damp at the edges. Even from this distance she could detect the scent of soap and shaving cream and bay rum. He'd donned fresh clothes, had selected the light blue shirt she especially liked on him, had buttoned his vest and tied his tie, polished his boots. His trousers were free of the gunbelt he customarily wore – a concession she knew, for her. For her…

"I'm sorry I'm a little late celebrating," he said, moving down the stairs toward her in that loose legged step of his. "I've been kind of tied up today…"

"It's all right," she demurred, glancing away so he wouldn't see the heat rush to her cheeks and knowing he'd seen it anyway. Nothing escaped Jim Crown's practiced and observant eye. But just the same, she could not let him hold it over her – she had her own morals, after all.

He stopped before her, reached for her hand and squeezed it, his grip engulfing hers. His clean scent rolled over her and she inhaled it, reveled in the heady feeling it wrought within her, closed her eyes for a moment. _Jim…_

"Here," he said, picking up the be-ribboned box and holding it out to her. "Been trying all day to give this to you." He broke off his gaze to glance briefly about, frowning with dismay. "I wanted to do it up right, but…"

"It doesn't matter," she quickly interrupted, bringing his warm hazel gaze back onto her. It really didn't matter. This day, this unrelenting day was finally over and it was just the two of them. "It was just…circumstances."

"Hmm," he said, squinting a little skeptically. He pressed the box into her hand. "Well, you'd better open it quick, before any more 'circumstances' come our way."

She let it rest in her palm a second more while feeling rippled through her, part excitement, part delight. A gift from him. Wrapped oh-so-carefully, even the blue ribbon was smartly tied with both loops and ends perfectly even. She didn't want to ruin it by opening it and taking away this moment. He meant so much to her.

He was waiting in that still manner, his eyes settled quietly on her, so close that she could quickly be enveloped in his grasp, could easily press herself against his broad chest and lay her head on his shoulder, stroke his jaw. But first this – his gift to her.

Despite the wrapping it came easily undone. With trembling fingers she removed the lid, peeled away some batting…

"Oh," she gasped. "Oh –oh, Jim…"

She couldn't get anything else out, couldn't tear her gaze away from it. A gold, open- work pendant gleamed up at her, delicately crafted in the shape of a shield. In the very center a smoothly cut moonstone glowed luminously at her, inviting her touch. It was warm and secure, winking with flecks of iridescence shining infinitely from within. Twin chains of matching, smooth-edged open work formed the necklace. It was exquisite, feminine – and perfect.

"Jim…" Dulcey looked up to him, a sudden terrible shyness overtaking her. "For me?"

He nodded. "Picked it out the last time I was in Topeka," he told her.

The image swept into her mind , this big man in dark wool working his way around a jeweler's store, yet not uncomfortable, even though he'd probably worn a gun somewhere on him. She knew he'd examined every piece, choosing the best one, the perfect one for her.

"I hope you like it," he added. " I thought it-" He broke off, suddenly taken up by his own bout of bashfulness.

"No one has ever…" she said softly, still touched by the gentle thoughtfulness. "And I've never owned…" She had no jewelry, only the thin gold ring passed down from her mother to her, a precious family heirloom. But nothing else. And he knew it; he saw her every day without anything around her neck, had seen her on those precious few party evenings with no brooch or earrings or anything of the kind. And so he'd given her… "Oh, Jim, it's just beautiful."

His smile broke across his face, and the delight reset the glitter in his eyes. Again Dulcey felt her cheeks heat and had to look away. She dipped her fingers into the box and lifted it out, loving the smooth feel of the metal. Carefully she straightened the chains, reached around to put it on, but her trembling fingers fumbled over the catch.

"Let me…" he offered.

She slowly turned, their hands brushing as they exchanged grasps on the chain. A soft silence settled over them as she stood holding her hair out of the way, the back of her neck exposed to him, feeling his even breaths warming her skin as he worked the clasp.

"There," he said after a moment and then she felt him settle it against her neck. "Let me see it proper…" She turned back to face him; he was still smiling, though it calmed as his gaze roved over her. He nodded in satisfaction. "It's prettier now that it's on you."

She glanced down at it, at the burnished gold and glistening stone against her blouse, feather-light but secure. "Jim – I – I…"

His touch made her look up to him. "Happy birthday, Dulcey," he rumbled out, then leaned in and touched his lips to her cheek. "Dulcey – I…"

She shook her head and placed fingers against his lips; she didn't want him to say it. "I know," she said.

He took her hand, kissed it, then held her gaze with his glittering one. Her own breath quickened, she couldn't help it. He was so tall and strong before her with his dark and shining hair, perfectly formed lips, strong cheekbones, that cleft in his chin. His focus was absorbing her, lifting her all up from the inside, drawing her ever closer. Something unhidden in his hazel stare struck her, sizzled through her…

His hand came up, touched her cheek, held; she felt the ridge of calluses along his palm. He dipped his head, glanced down – at her lips, his own parted slightly, his breaths increasing. Her fingers reached up, touched the still damp black hair edging over his collar. It was quiet, so quiet, and then even that was gone and it was just the two of them in this moment, drawn together, his gift linking her to him. For a second there was a flash of light upon metal – first her necklace and then on his badge. The badge that still put up some resistance but now weakening under their feelings.

He leaned in – or perhaps she was doing the leaning. It didn't matter. She loved him, she did indeed, and there was nothing that could possibly ever mar this…

"Marshal! Come quick!"

She jerked and quickly pulled away, as always, for no one could know…

"No," he said, catching her wrist and bringing her back to him. "Not yet." His arms slid around her, hands locking behind her back, drawing her up close. "Not quite yet…"

And then he kissed her.

END


End file.
